


Slow Down

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, I know nothing about cars, M/M, Mechanic Zayn, Popstar Harry, Sexual Harrassment for tw, fudged English geography I'm sorry, just playing with power dynamics, no dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:50:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1490602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry wants. It's what he does best. He wants, and he charms his way into getting what he wants. He got X Factor. He got to be a world famous solo pop star. He gets whatever men and women want to fall into bed with him. </p><p>And now he wants this handsome dark-eyed mechanic in a middle of nowhere town. And Harry gets what he wants. He just isn't always prepared for what the getting means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks of course to my lovely beta Celia, who isn't even in the fandom but waded through 65k of smut, and to all the other fic writers out there who I read to get inspiration for all the sex scenes. But really, this is for Denice, who asked for a quick drabble based on [this](http://morethanbromance.tumblr.com/post/70593239348/goldenmines-x-im-not-thinking-about-an) but zarry and instead got 5 months of 1000 word updates and still stuck with it through everything.
> 
>  
> 
> I own nothing/know nothing/have no authority whatsoever. Don't sue please.

“So, Harry, there’s plenty of talk going around that you’re a bit of a womanizer. Do you have anything to say about that?”

Harry thinks about protesting, but his PR person is shaking his head from offstage, and he knows what’s expected of him. So instead, he gives the interviewer a smile that’s more than half a smirk, and gets a flush right on cue.

“Well,” he drawls, dragging it out, “I’d say I’m a man-and-womanizer, really.”

The audience laughs appreciatively, the PR person nods, and the interview goes on.

\---

Harry is late. Not just in a few minutes late sort of way, but in a going to be an hour late and still counting sort of way. It would be fine usually, even if he’s generally obsessively on time except when his PR people tell him not to be, but he needs to get to this interview. And his car breaking down when he was already late because of an accident was the last thing he needed.

But break down it did, in the wheezing, uncertain way that means he can still drive it but he’s not sure he should, and of course the closest mechanic’s shop is in some middle of nowhere town Harry can’t even see the name of on his phone. And also, closed. This is the problem with small town life, because it's only 1, why is it closed? One in the morning, Harry could understand, but this?

He stares at the window, trying to figure out what to do. His phone lost the last of its charge trying to find this place, so he can’t call Liam, or the radio station, or anyone, and he would really prefer not to go into public because while someone would definitely lend him a phone, he’s in too much of a hurry to be Harry Styles, Pop Sensation. He loves signing things, but not when he has places to be.

He’s just about gotten up the steam to go see if he can dig up some sort of disguise to find a payphone when a black motorcycle takes the turn into the parking lot _hard_ and stops on a dime right next to the office door, so sudden and fast that Harry almost loses his breath with envy and fear.

The person on the motorcycle pauses for a second before they get off, but then they do, long leg swinging over the seat so the tight jeans pull over his thighs and Harry almost loses his breath for another reason. He is every fantasy Harry has ever had, he thinks, black leather jacket over broad shoulders and dark jeans on lean legs and a helmet still encasing his head. But Harry is also still late and the garage was still inexplicably closed, so he’s ready to be angry as the guy walks up to the office and takes out a key to unlock it. Harry yanks on a hopefully-disguising beanie and gets out of his car the instant he does, follows him over to the door. He tries not to tap his foot impatiently, he really does, honestly, but he has somewhere to be and he hates it when he's a minute late and people start talking about how entitled he is, because he's not, it’s not like he could stop his car from breaking down. But then the guy—who's still wearing his helmet—turns to him, and asks—no, demands, "What's your hurry?"  
  
And he's got a nice voice, Harry can admit, somehow gravelly and smooth all at once, but, still. Late. "I've got places to be, okay?" he says, and hopes the guy doesn't recognize him. He is so not looking his best, he can’t afford another picture like this.   
  
If he does Harry can't tell—because, helmet—but he can hear the scorn in the guy's voice anyway. "Sorry for eating lunch, mate. I'll be sure not to do that in the future."

Harry can't help but smile. He's been friends with Louis long enough to appreciate a good comeback. And it’s not this guy’s fault he’s late. "No, it's not—I've just—sorry, it's been a bad day."

"Days when your car breaks down usually are," the guy replies, a little softer, and nudges the office door open with his hip. Harry trails him into the office, which is an odd combination of neat waiting area and a desk in back that is obviously covered in papers around the beat-up old computer. The guy walks back to the desk (Harry shamelessly ogles his ass as he walks away, because it’s too nice a ass not to look at, even if it’s kind of non-existent) and ruffles a few papers before he takes off his helmet and turns. "What's the problem?"

This time, Harry actually does lose his breath. The guy—he's literally the most beautiful person Harry's ever seen, and he's seen plenty of beautiful people. But this guy isn’t beautiful like the models Harry hangs out with are beautiful, like they carefully craft themselves that way; he’s beautiful like he couldn’t not be. He has got eyelashes longer than any girl Harry's known sweeping over cheekbones Harry wants to bite and a jawline he wants to lick, and his hair is dark and thick and just the littlest bit ruffled from his helmet where it falls over his forehead, and Harry can see the edges of ink curling across his collarbone from the loose t-shirt he has on under his jacket.

He spares a brief thought for the interview, but it's very brief.

"It just—stopped," Harry says plaintively, and sidles forward. He runs a hand through his hair so it falls to best advantage, tilts his head so he can use his eyelashes too. "I think there might have been lights on?"

"Of course there were." the guy rolls his eyes, and he even looks pretty doing that. "I'll take a look, okay? No guarantees I’ll get it done as fast as you want, though. It's just me here."

"Well, us," Harry points out with a cheerful wink. The guy nods as he walks back around the desk, a little warily. Harry is used to that reaction, he barely notices it anymore. "I'm Harry, by the way."

He holds out a hand. The guy takes it, lets Harry engulf his hand. His hands are smaller than Harry’s, but there are callouses that brush against Harry’s skin as he holds the hand a few beats longer than necessary. "Zayn. And I know who you are. My sister's got a poster of you on her wall."

"Oh does she?" Harry asks, and smirks. Because there are some things he dislikes about being famous, but the edge it gives him with hot guys isn't one of them. "You heard any of my music?"

"On repeat, ad nauseam," Zayn says, and Harry's barely gotten over the shock and heat of those pink lips wrapping around Latin words in a leather jacket when Zayn strides past him and their arms brush and Harry's turned on all over again. Who even is this man, and who thought it was okay to make him have tattoos and be able to use Latin phrases? He’s not sure he’s ever wanted someone more.

"Like it?"

Zayn shrugs, but he's outside by this time, and walking over to the car. "It still runs?" he calls back, and doesn't answer Harry's question.

"Sorta? I mean, I got it here, but it was making noises? A sort of clunking thing?”

"Sounds dangerous."

"I thought so. That's why I stopped. So, you live here?"

"Clearly."

"Your whole life?"

"Yeah."

"You don't get bored?"

"Not really."

Harry doesn't quite know what to do with these answers. People usually go out of their way to talk to him, or are scared speechless but still try to talk. But Zayn sounds unimpressed. Or even more than that, he sounds like he doesn't care about talking to Harry, and that's always been like catnip to Harry.   
  
Also catnip are hot guys, and Harry watches as Zayn pops open the hood and leans in. His jeans are just tight enough to show off his ass while still letting him straddle that motorcycle. Harry's jeans, on the other hand, are feeling tighter than usual.

"Well, it's pretty clear," Zayn says as he stands up. If Harry had any shame left, he might blush, but he thinks he lost all shame around the time he was papped snogging his makeup artist. Or maybe when he had been pantsed on stage. Either way, it doesn't bother him.

But still, "It is?" he asks, because he can play the game, too. And there's something about Zayn, about the tilt of his head and the twist of his lips, that hints that he doesn't mind playing either. Harry hopes not. He likes playing games.

"What's wrong, here," Zayn slams the hood, loud enough that Harry jumps. Harry thinks about adding some sort of comment about the only thing wrong is him not having tasted Harry's dick yet, but holds himself back. Liam would be proud. Louis, less so. But it's probably a good thing, because Zayn goes on, "It's the--"   
  
Harry nods at all the car stuff he says, and occupies himself by nodding whenever Zayn pauses and spending the rest of the time imagining what those pretty pink lips would taste like. But he only gets to for a minute, because then,

"You don't really care, do you?" Zayn asks.

Harry shakes his head. "I have no idea what any of those words mean," he admits cheerfully, because guys and fans alike tend to like when he plays the dumb pretty boy (even if he really doesn’t get cars), and Zayn snorts.

"It's an easy fix. Should be ready in an hour or so."

"Really?" That distracts Harry enough to widen his eyes and grin, because if that's the case he might actually make it to the interview on time. "That'd be ace."

Another shrug. No one should look that pretty shrugging. Harry considers writing to someone about it. Or maybe just telling Nick he needs to complain about it on his next show. "'s my job. Keys?"

Harry digs them out of his pocket, which is not always an easy proposition in these jeans, and tosses them to Zayn. The throw is, as usual, wildly inaccurate, but Zayn sidesteps neatly and catches them. "Great. You can wait in the office."

"Okay." But Harry leans against the wall as Zayn slides into his car and drives it into the garage, then follows him in.   
  
The garage is pretty big for a one man operation, enough room for three or so cars, and an entire wall on the back that's empty except for this wild graffiti. Harry finds an empty spot where he's more or less out of the way and probably can't touch anything that he can hurt himself with, and leans against the wall. Then he notices the table next to him full of tools, and starts picking through them, seeing if he can identify any of them.

"You hurt yourself, the nearest hospital's half an hour away," Zayn says, and Harry jumps. He hadn't notice Zayn approach, but he's suddenly close enough to remove something from Harry's hand that he thinks might have something to do with fire from the images on the side. Harry has enough presence of mind as they do to move his hand so it brushes against Zayn’s. "And you'd have to pay for it."

"Not really a problem."

"That's why I'd make you pay."

Zayn puts the thing back down on the table then strides back over to the car. He's gotten it jacked up, and then Harry's breath hitches as he lies down on a dolly and slides under the car. Harry's pretty sure he's seen porn start this way. He's pretty sure he wants to make porn that starts this way, with just Zayn's legs out from under the car, spread a little so Harry thinks he could fit between them, grab at the laces of his combat boots and pull Zayn back out towards him.

But he might get slapped for that, and also he does need Zayn to fix his car, so he holds back, just leans against the wall and watches.   
  
Or he does for the first five minutes, but he's never been able to deal with silence well, so, "So do you like my music?" he asks, because everyone likes talking about his music, even if it’s to bash it.

"Not really a pop fan."

"Not even for me?" His best smirk is wasted on the underside of the car.

"Why would it being you change anything?"

Harry doesn't really have an answer for that—he doesn't usually need to explain the cheeky things he says, usually the focus of them is too busy swooning to pay attention to things like logic.   
  
So he changes the subject. That didn't seem like it was leading back to the point anyway. "Is this your shop?" he asks, instead.

"Do I look old enough to own a shop?" Zayn throws back. He's muffled a little by something clanging, and his legs shift, like he's really putting effort into it. Harry should really not be this turned on by a set of calves, but he's just lying there with his legs moving like that and really, Harry has no choice but to scoot forward so he can lean against the car and let his leg press against Zayn's through their jeans.

"Not the age limit I think of when I look at you."

"It's my family's." Zayn doesn't even acknowledge Harry's line, his leg not even twitching a little. "So it's mine in a way.”

"And did you always want to be a mechanic?" Harry lets a little bit of his smirk sink into his voice, "Always been good with your hands?"

"Something like that."   
  
And so it goes for the next hour, Harry trying all his best lines and trying to stay as close to Zayn as possible, to get into his space as much as he can, and Zayn just—well, Zayn just not responding, really. Either he's impossibly thick or is ignoring Harry. He's going with the former, statistically speaking; he’s not sure he’s ever met someone he couldn’t convince to want him if he tried hard enough.

Until finally Zayn slides out from under the car for the last time, doesn't react to the fact that standing up puts him inches away from Harry, and slides around him to twist the keys. The car starts, and it doesn't sound any different, but it must be because Zayn nods in satisfaction and turns it off again.

"There you go," he announces, and wipes the oil off his hands on a dirty rag he sticks back into his belt loop. Harry follows the line of that rag right down to his ass, to how it outlines a slim hip that Harry's pretty sure he could wrap his whole hand around.   
  
Zayn makes a noise that's basically an eye roll in noise form and pushes past Harry to get to the desk. Harry doesn't move, so he has to press himself all against him just to get by, and maybe he shifts his hand a little so it draws a line across Zayn's thigh as he goes. But again, Zayn doesn't even react, really, not even to punch him or anything. He just sits at the desk, punches some numbers, and waits as a receipt prints off a machine. He names some numbers Harry barely even notices, because he's rather busy watching Zayn's lips and licking his own. He'll manage this, somehow. Louis will never let him hear the end of it if he doesn't, if he doesn't manage to score with the hot mechanic in a middle of nowhere town.

He thinks Zayn is telling him what he did to the car when he hears the word fuck and zones back in.   
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"I'm not going to let you fuck me against your car," Zayn repeats conversationally. Harry chokes. Partly because of the way Zayn says 'fuck', how it makes him think of him doing it and that's all sorts of hot, but also because of what he said.

"No?" Harry manages to get out. He’s not been this floored in years.

"Or blow you, or whatever fantasy you've been thinking about. It's not going to happen."

"Maybe I don't want it to happen," Harry immediately backtracks. There's no way Zayn's going to believe it, though, and sure enough he just raises one eyebrow, more condescending than even some of Nick's hipster friends.

"Mate, you want it. You're not exactly subtle." He shrugs, and his lips twist together. "It's alright. Well no, it's actually not, because it's sexual harassment, but you probably just don't recognize ‘no’. It's not exactly your fault. I know how it is."

"I—" Harry's mouth opens and closes. He's—sexual harassment? He wouldn't. He's the nice one. Everyone always said so. He makes sure to always have things like verbal consent and doesn't go home with people who are too drunk and says progressive things about women on TV. Yeah, he can be aggressive, but never in a—harassment?

"I'm so sorry! I mean, I didn't realize—harassment is bad, obviously, if it's really no I wouldn't—you're just really hot—" he's rambling and he knows it, rambling like he hasn't for years ever since the PR team got on his ass and started training him in interviews, but something about Zayn—about the even, cool look in those whiskey-colored eyes, about his hands folded neatly over the table like a judge with oil-stained fingers, about the feather on the back of his neck Harry noticed when he turned around and wants to just bite and bite and bite—it flusters him. It makes him feel sixteen again, with floppy hair and no idea what he was ever saying. But he swallows, and rolls back his shoulders, and takes five seconds to think about his words like Liam always tells him to do. He’s not a feckless sixteen year old anymore.

He’s Harry Styles, pop star. "Sorry," he says at last, drags out the word like it's a privilege for him to be saying it at all, because that's what it is, right?   
  
He turns blindly to leave before he says anything more stupid, but then somehow a stool gets in his way and he goes sprawling instead, landing on his hands and knees hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"Oh, fuck," Zayn swears, and darts around the table almost before Harry's finished his cry of pain. His hands are soft on Harry's shoulders and at least there’s finally something under then disinterest in his voice, even if it's just concern. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." Harry pushes himself back into his knees, wincing when he feels the concrete against them. That's going to bruise. "It's not the first time. I'm a bit of a klutz, really. Like, more than a bit, actually," he admits, and grins despite himself, "my mum always said that it was a lucky day when I didn't have to go to the a&e."

“Well, good. I can’t have Harry Styles dying in here. My sister would never forgive me.”

“My fans might attack you,” Harry agrees. He tries for a smile, something that might maybe make Zayn not think he is an evil sexual harasser. “So might my sister, and she’s feisty. Pulls hair and everything. Or maybe just mine…”

And then—Zayn chuckles, still crouched beside him looking deep into his eyes like he might have got a concussion or something, and there’s a bit of crinkling at the corner of his eyes, and his lips are very very pink against his stubble as they curve upwards.

“Bet I could take her. I’ve got sisters, I’m feisty too.”

“Yeah, but your sister likes me, so she’s probably not as badass as mine.”

That gets another smile, just as painful. “Want to bet?”

Maybe Harry did get a concussion because he meant to say something charming about Zayn’s sister, but suddenly he's asking, "So is it no to everything?"

The smile freezes, drains off Zayn's face. "What?"

"Only, is it just no to me fucking you? Or—would it be no if I sucked you off?" He can see Zayn swallow at that, can see his Adam's apple move in a throat as pretty as the rest of him, and Harry holds in his smirk at that. Hah. He knew Zayn thought he was hot, at least. But then he has to add, because sexual harassment, "If it's still no, that's fine, obviously, I've paid and I'll go, I just think you’re really hot and I’d like to but—"

"Yeah," Zayn cuts him off, but slowly, like he's thinking better of it as he says it, "Yeah, that'd be okay."

Okay. Harry immediately sets about making sure he realizes it'd be more than just 'okay'. He’s Harry fucking Styles, he’s so much more than okay. Also, to make sure Zayn doesn’t think better of it, because for some reason he’s decided this is what he wants, who he wants, and he’s not good at not getting what he wants.

So he shuffles forward on his knees, hoping the lip-biting smirk he puts on is enough to distract from the fact that no one looks sexy while shuffling (Harry’s tried), edges right into Zayn’s space then keeps going, so Zayn falls backwards rather than get run over. He catches himself on his wrists, his knees bent and spread just the right width apart for Harry to fit in between, so he does, grinning as wickedly as he knows how when he reaches down to undo Zayn’s belt buckle. 

“Fuck, not on the floor,” Zayn says, then, and edges away, “that’s so unsanitary.”

Harry heaves a sigh. Some people have no imagination. But he draws himself to his feet, then reaches down and yanks Zayn up with him. It’s easy to do, really, because despite the lines of muscles across his forearms he’s small, a lot smaller than Harry. Harry could push him against a wall and hold him there, probably, hold him there until he’s sobbing with how much he wants him. Until he’s taken back everything he said about ‘okay’ and not liking his music and his unimpressed, pretty, pretty face is contorted with _Harry Harry Harry_. Or—he looks around the room for other places, other ors. There’s a tool bench that has a lot of things Harry could hurt himself on, the desk (and there’s a fantasy), and…

Zayn must follow his gaze. “I’m not letting you blow me against your car either,” he says, deadpan.

It’s the deadpan that gets to Harry, like it did earlier, like that rich, gravely voice coming evenly out of those pink, pink lips just goes straight to Harry’s groin. He’s never liked slow anyway.

He leans down and bites at Zayn’s neck, his teeth scraping against the gold skin at the meeting of his neck and shoulder, hard enough to sting. He wants to leave a mark. He wants Zayn to push at it tomorrow and think that was Harry Styles, Harry Styles made me come so hard I saw stars, Harry Styles the pop star made me feel like that despite all my scorn and protests. So as one hand sneaks between them to undo Zayn’s buckle, Harry bites and licks and sucks until Zayn’s “What are you, a vampire?” is cut off by a moan. Fuck yeah, that’s right, Harry thinks in as close to a growl as he can get.

But instead of growling, instead of palming his aching dick for some relief from the salt and oil taste of Zayn’s sweat and the way his eyelashes look spread across his skin, Harry just gives Zayn his most innocent smirk and sinks down to his knees. He keeps one hand on the back of Zayn’s thighs, squeezes into the firm muscle there, and undoes Zayn’s jeans with the other. He’s got black batman boxers on, and Harry spares them a snort that has Zayn trying to knee him in the ribs before he gets down to business. Batman pants aside, in this moment he thinks he wants this more than anything else he’s wanted in years. Wants more of the snuffling grunts Zayn makes as Harry yanks the pants aside to free his cock. Harry licks his lips as he looks at it, only a bit for show. It’s not the biggest he’s seen, not the biggest he’s sucked, but it’s nice, got a good width to it. 

“Going to look at it or do something with it?” Zayn asks, his voice raspy.

Harry pauses, tilts his head, and when Zayn huffs out a breath he grins as cheekily as he knows how. “Still deciding,” he retorts, and Zayn’s next breath has a bit more laughter in it, until it chokes off when Harry takes him into his mouth almost all at once.

“Fuck,” he swears, and Harry grins around his dick and pulls off with a wet slurp.

“Said you didn’t want that,” he points out, and Zayn actually fucking growls at him, which is hotter than maybe anything in the world. Harry’s own dick is painfully hard against his jeans, from the sounds Zayn’s making and the feel of him in Harry’s mouth and just fucking looking at Zayn as he shakes, his hips bucking uncontrollably against the hand Harry has keeping him back.

He’s always liked this as much as getting a blow job, liked the feel of taking someone apart with just his mouth, just the way his tongue circles the head and then flicks down the side. Liked how much in that instant Zayn needs him more than anything, needs him more than air or life or anyone else who might have done this before. It’s heady, the need; Harry became a pop star because he needed that need, needs it enough to fumble open his jeans and shove a hand down his pants, jerking himself off fast and hard, like he’s sucking on Zayn.

He could make him wait for it, draw it out so that Zayn’s swearing and begging and saying his name like a prayer, but Harry doesn’t have time for that really and he wants to get off and something about Zayn, about blowing the prettiest boy he’s ever seen in the middle of a mechanic’s garage after knowing him an hour, that makes Harry want it to be over quickly, to blaze and die like a firework. So he doesn’t pull out his bag of tricks, just sucks deep and hard and digs the fingers of the hand not wrapped around his cock into Zayn’s hip until Zayn’s just saying something unintelligible under his breath like a spell.

Then, “Fuck, I’m gonna—“ and he comes into Harry’s mouth, and it’s worth the oil stains on his knees and the grit that will be in his voice on the interview and every other thing in the universe, because Zayn coming apart is like watching marble come to life, his eyes fluttering, his whole body going loose, his hands grasping fruitlessly at Harry’s shoulders. Harry comes too, with the sight of it, come spilling onto his hand and the floor a little, shivering into Zayn’s leg as he presses his forehead against his thigh.

Once the sound of Zayn’s breathing evened out, once Harry’s stopped shaking, he settles back on his heels. Zayn’s eyes are still closed, but there’s already a bruise blooming on his throat. “So? Okay?” Harry asks.

Zayn opens his eyes. “You’re a little shit, aren’t you?” he asks, as he does up his jeans. He doesn’t answer Harry’s question. He also doesn’t seem to be any more impressed with Harry now, though he does pull the rag out of his pocket and toss it to Harry. “Here, you can clean up with that.”

Harry picks the rag up slowly. There’re oil grease stains on it, but he wipes his hands, then the floor to be safe, before he does up his own jeans and gets to his feet. He’s not sure what he expected after, but usually people are a little more ‘I got blown by Harry Styles’ or ‘thanks for the amazing blowjob’ or ‘will you marry me’, which admittedly only happened once but Louis’s never let him hear the end of how he stuttered a little before saying ‘no, thank you’ so he thinks it counts. Not this… he doesn’t know. Coldness? Or it’s not even that, really. Coolness, maybe. Like it didn’t matter at all. Like it’s some hook up in a bar, wham bam thank you ma’am, and who it was with doesn’t matter.

“No thanks, even?” he asks, calmly, as he throws the rag back. Zayn makes a face as he catches it, then sticks it back into his pocket.

“You were the one who wanted that. Think you should be thanking me.”

“Are you always this nice to guys you sleep with?”

“I didn’t see any sleeping.” Zayn folds his arms across his chest, raises his eyebrows. He might as well be wearing his helmet again, Harry thinks, for all he can read him. It’s a little odd, because there was a moment, when Harry tripped and fell and he looked concerned, where Zayn’s face was like an open book. But not right now. “And don’t you have places to be?”

He does. He should go. Liam’s going to yell at him, and nothing’s worse than that. But he—there’s just something about Zayn that’s throwing him off, that’s making him forget that he’s the one who dismisses people, not the other way around.

“I do, thanks.” A bit to ground him, but mainly because he wants to, Harry stops in front of Zayn on the way to his car. He presses his thumb against the bruise he’s left, leans in close enough to whisper, in his best low, rumbly, sexy voice that had always made Carmen forgive him whatever he did in front of the paps, “Hope you remember this next time your sister plays my music,” and gets into his car with the sound of Zayn’s chuckle behind him, and the memory of Zayn’s eyes going dark when he pushed the bruise hard enough to hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god so many lovely responses! I'm glad you are all enjoying it. The main question seems to be about my updating schedule. I will try to update every 2 days or so, though it might not be that regular depending on my life. But never fear--the story is complete, so it will be finished in the promised 12 chapters. (11 + epilogue, that is). 
> 
> Hope part 2 lives up to your expectations!

And that’s that, then. The interview goes well enough, even if he gets some tsks and frowns for being a few minutes late, but even then he smiles and tells them about his car breaking down and gives a dramatic retelling on the radio of his epic quest to find a mechanic’s in what seems to be the last bit of wilderness left in England that doesn’t actually mention anything that happened at all, and they stop being mad at him. Mostly. If they still are they don’t show it. 

He goes home, and doesn’t think at all about the pretty boy with the pink lips and illegal eyelashes and skin that tasted like salt and grease. He dives back into his life, goes to all the parties Grimmy’s heard about, gets papped with at least three women and two men, which is actually not very many for him, all considering, plays video games with Louis and Liam on his days off, and does not think about hazel eyes going dark with lust or those long fingers curled around his dick when he wanks. 

This denial lasts about four days before he realizes that not thinking about Zayn isn’t really working at all. This realization may also have been helped by Louis asking him why he’d been so distracted lately, and him yelping something about cars and oil and whiskey before running away. He hasn’t been that off kilter for years. 

So he sits down at his table to think. Then, because he always thinks better with food, he gets up to make himself a fruit salad, and maybe grab some of the biscuits he made, and oh if he puts some whipped cream on them…

Thirty minutes later, complete with a strawberry shortcake sort of thing that involves many more fruits than strawberries, Harry sits back down to think, seriously. Then he gets distracted by the dirty dishes sitting in his stainless steel sink, and gets back up to clean them. And once they’re shiny and back in the dark wood cabinets Lou had insisted were very chic, and were, he guessed, though he would say they’re a little cold, he has to go through the rest of his flat to find the other dishes around—usually ones Louis left places, because he’s incapable of cleaning up after himself, but also some plates Harry had left in front of the massive TV Louis had told him every rich twenty-something had to have, the beer bottles Liam had forgotten about when he fell asleep on Harry’s couch last time they had a boy’s night in (and Harry’s really not sure how he did that because his couch isn’t exactly overstuffed or anything), and the glasses that accumulate everywhere. 

Once those are also clean, he sits back down, stares at his concoction that’s already getting a little melty, and thinks. Thinks of Zayn as he first saw him, cool as Harry only tries to be. Who didn’t even smile when Harry put his best pop-star, famous heartthrob moves on him, but said yes after Harry had made a fool of himself. Who Harry cannot stop thinking of, which is so ridiculous because it had only been a blow job in a garage, and Zayn hadn’t been that hot anyway. 

Well, yes, he had been. Or at least that’s how Harry remembers him. But it’s not like Harry to fixate like this. He loves where he can, when he can, which is just about always. He’ll hook up with anyone, but he hasn’t had an exclusive anything since before X Factor, he thinks. Depends on if you count the management-arranged celebrity girlfriends/friends with benefits sort of things as real, which he doesn’t, though some fans, and maybe girls, wouldn’t agree. But—well, Louis calls him a slag, and Nick says he’s just the love ‘em and leave ‘em type, and Liam shakes his head and very pointedly doesn’t say anything in that horribly judgey Liam way of his that always makes Harry kind of want to hang his head and kind of want to go hook up with everyone in a club to prove him right. Whatever it is, he’s never really wanted a person a second time. Maybe as a mates thing, as a ‘why not’ thing, but not with this burning need that makes his fingers twitch and his heart beat twice as fast.

Harry’s not good at wanting, he thinks. Or he’s not good at wanting and not going out to get. 

He pokes at the fruit concoction mournfully, wraps his lips around the spoon and thinks about how it could have been Zayn’s dick. 

Then it comes to him. He’s pining. He’s fucking pining for this boy and his cheekbones and his sharp jawline and his earrings and the way the leather jacket fit over his shoulders and the way he has no idea what’s under that jacket. Whether the tattoos go all the way up his arms or there’s just some ink at his wrists, whether his arms are as muscular and capable as he imagines they are, from the way they held tools and held onto Harry. He wants to know all that. Wants to lick every inch of this mechanic boy’s skin and map it all with his fingers. 

But he is fucking Harry Styles, and Harry Styles doesn’t pine. 

Instead, he gets up, puts the fruit thing in the fridge, goes downstairs, gets in his car, and drives. 

\---

It’s a two hour drive to the town Harry doesn’t even remember the name of, and another half hour of doubling back when he realized he missed the exit, so it’s almost six by the time he gets to the garage—Malik’s, he notices this time, and turns the word over in his mouth. Zayn Malik. A good name. A sexy name. A little foreign, but still smooth, easy on Harry’s tongue. He approves. Not that he has any business approving or disapproving of Zayn’s name, obviously, but he likes it. Likes how it feels to him. 

He pulls up across the street. It’s only when he notices the CLOSED sign in the office window that the problems with his plan presents itself. He has no idea if Zayn will be here or not. Maybe he doesn’t work here on Thursdays. Maybe he only works mornings. Maybe he’s stopped working altogether and gone off to be a model so everyone can drool over those cheekbones. Maybe he’s stopped working altogether because some other rich man or woman’s car broke down and saw him and he actually liked their music and their flirting and didn’t call it sexual harassment and then they swept him off his feet and took him far away to their castle by the sea, where he could live in the lap of luxury with servants feeding him peeled grapes as he reclined on a divan in a tiny little white robe, but it was actually the lair of a dragon and he would be trapped and then Harry would have to track him down and slay the dragon even though knowing Harry he’d probably mess it up and end up hurting himself and Zayn would peek out the window and roll his eyes but then notice he was hurt and look at him in that concerned, sweet way and ask if he was alright, and ask him in, and then they’d have a lot of hot sex on the divan and eventually Zayn would drive off the dragon with his magic mechanic-handy powers and they’d come back to London together and Zayn would live in his apartment and get oil on everything and always be in Harry’s bed when he wanted it and spend the rest of his time doing…things. Whatever he wanted to do. Whatever he did when he wasn’t mechanicing. Mechanizing? 

Then there’s movement, and the door to the office swings open, and two people come out. The first is a teenage girl, tossing her dark hair and saying something over her shoulder that sounds sassy. The second—the second is Zayn, but he’s almost unrecognizable except that he’s still that pretty, wow, Harry actually remembered that right. He’s got on dark jeans and a white t-shirt, though now Harry can see the ink tangling up his arms in patterns he wants to see closer, to know. But the difference is—he’s smiling. Not just laughing, not just grinning or smirking, but really smiling, soft and fond and so sweet it almost hurts. 

And suddenly, everything in Harry changes. He doesn’t just want Zayn, the cheekbones and the body and that golden skin and the way he moaned Harry’s name. He wants that smile. He wants Zayn to smile at him like that, like there’s nothing he loves more in the world, like just looking at her makes him happy, like she’s his everything. He doesn’t care if that’s his girlfriend (although she’s a bit young for him, really) or if Zayn doesn’t like Harry right now or anything. He wants that smile. 

He waits, though, behind the tinted windows of his car where no one will recognize him. Waits as Zayn and the girl face each other and start to argue, too quietly for Harry to hear. The girl’s got her hands on her hips and her chin jutting out like Gem’s used to when she was arguing with their mom. Zayn just crosses his arms across his chest, but Harry thinks he looks less angry than sort of amused, because he saw angry and cold when Zayn was talking to him and this isn’t it. 

Eventually, Harry can’t help it, because as Louis says he’s kind of a nosy bastard—he rolls down the window to hear better. No one will see him, probably, and if they do no one’s going to expect to see Harry Styles in a town like this. But all he gets is a, “Zayn, come on, please!” and, deeper, in that voice that goes all up and down Harry’s spine, “Wali, I can’t, you know that,” before the girl scowls at him, an expression that takes up all of her face (probably a sister, Harry decides, because she’s got similar features to Zayn, and is similarly pretty, though not as pretty, in Harry’s totally unbiased opinion), stalks over to a bike with melodrama Louis would approve of, and rides off. 

Zayn watches her go until she turns the corner, his eyes curving into little crescents as he smiles. Once she’s gone, he turns to go back inside—and catches sight of Harry’s car. Or Harry, he can’t be sure, but either way the smile goes right out of his eyes, and his shoulders stiffen, and him narrowing his eyes is the only acknowledgement he gives before he goes back inside and shuts the door firmly behind him. 

It’s the only acknowledgement Harry needs, really. He grins and waves, in case Zayn’s still looking, then drives into the garage’s parking lot. He parks in a proper spot this time, instead of just pulling up—he’s planning to take a while—then gets out and goes to the door. 

It’s locked. So he knocks. 

Nothing happens. 

Harry can’t say he’s surprised. So he knocks again. 

This time, he hears movement inside, so through the door he says, “Zayn? I can stand here and knock all day, and by that time someone will probably have seen me and the paps will come because they’re magic like that but not in a good way and then you’ll have to let me in or I’ll be mobbed and that would on your conscience and—”

The door opens. Harry smirks, so that’s the first expression Zayn sees as he opens the door just wide enough so he can see Harry. But Zayn’s not smiling. He’s got that blank face on again. 

“What do you want?” he snaps. 

That one’s easy. “You,” Harry replies, and keeps himself from bouncing in anticipation. There’s some ink right on the pulse point on Zayn’s wrist; he wonders what it would be like to taste it. 

“Me?” Zayn raises his eyebrows. “My position on getting fucked against a car hasn’t changed.” 

“We’ll work on that,” Harry waves a hand. “But for right now, can I actually come in? I was serious about getting papped, I’d really not like for people to know I’m here.” And he’d like to get inside, but this works as an excuse. 

“We’re closed.” 

“Maybe I need a rush job. I could pay extra.” Zayn’s face closes off even more, and he looks like he’s going to close the door, so Harry runs back over what he just said and, “Oh, shit, no, I didn’t mean—obviously you’re not a—it was just supposed to be banter, I didn’t mean to call you a prostitute or anything, because obviously you aren’t, unless you are, not that I think you are but if you happened to be then it’s not that it’s a bad thing or anything, I mean, you’re obviously pretty enough to be successful, and—”

Zayn’s lips are pressed together now, but Harry thinks he can see something like a smile in his eyes rather than anger, so he tries an apologetic smile. “Sorry?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, but he steps back so that there’s enough room for Harry to come in as well. “Thanks, mate,” he says, once he’s in. 

“Not your mate.” Zayn closes the door, turns so that he can lean against it, and crosses his arms again. He rests on foot against the door, his knee bent, and Harry’s mouth goes a little dry. It’s like every James Dean fantasy he ever had is right in front of him. 

“You could be,” Harry suggests hopefully. He has sex with a lot of his mates. Zayn snorts like he knows what Harry’s thinking. 

“You don’t want me to be a mate, you want me to be a groupie, and sorry, ‘mate’,” he drawls out the word, turning it over in his mouth like it’s painful, “but I’m not.” 

There’s something about the way he’s looking at Harry, like he’s disgusted and challenging and still not smiling like Harry wants him to, that makes Harry have to move. He takes two, three steps forward until he’s crowding into Zayn’s space against the wall, a hand on either side of his head, his body pushed close enough to Zayn’s that he can feel every bit of heat. Zayn glares up at him, but there’s a hint of something else in his eyes—interest, Harry thinks, because he knows interest, knows when people look at him like they want him—so Harry leans down to whisper into Zayn ear (or, well, more his cheek, but it means Harry gets to brush his lips over those cheekbones so he’s not drawing distinctions). “Are you telling me you don’t want me to blow you again?” 

He can feel Zayn’s shiver, feel his hips twitch, and knows he’s looking pretty self-satisfied. But Zayn’s face hasn’t changed, even though Harry _knows_ he’s turned on. “I’m saying,” Zayn says, evenly, “that this feels a little too much like porn to be healthy.”

“Who cares about healthy?” Harry asks. “I just—” and then Zayn’s too close, too much, and Harry can feel him exhale, and he fucking licks his lips, and Harry doesn’t have a choice. He just closes the distance between them and crashes their lips together. 

For a second, one glorious second that Harry files in his mind under ‘to wank over later’, Zayn kisses back, presses into him and his lips are hot and a little chapped and he tastes like smoke and sweat and this, this is why Harry came back. 

But then he shoves Harry off. “What the fuck?” he demands. His eyes are blazing, like the fire that management sometimes use on stage with Harry before they realized the danger of him stumbling into it. 

Harry’s panting, a little, less from the kiss and more from the intensity of it, the intensity of his want. But he still manages to grin, because Zayn had shoved him away but hadn’t slapped him or anything, and had kissed him back. Had, for a second. Zayn wants him. “I wanted to kiss you.”

“So you just did?” 

“Yes?” 

“You can’t—let me go,” Zayn spits, and shoves at Harry’s arm. Harry moves it, even though he really really really doesn’t want to, but he’s not going to trap Zayn or anything. Zayn pushes past him, walks over to the desk and perches on the edge of it—a safe distance away, Harry thinks, a little smugly. 

“You can’t do that,” Zayn repeats, once he’s there and can cross his arms again and glaring. Something about the motion has rucked his shirt up a little so Harry can see a bit of ink there, right above his hip. “Are people usually okay with you just kissing them?”

“Yeah, basically,” Harry admits with a shrug. “I mean, sometimes Liam—he’s my mate, and also kind of my manager, or more just in charge of making me get places on time—gets annoyed, and Louis slaps me sometimes but he does that anyway and anyway he just cuddles with people all the time, and security’s usually not that happy with it, but other than that…” 

Zayn’s just shaking his head, his lips pressed tightly together in a thin, very pink, line, surrounded by his beard. It’s not a smile, but there’s a bit of one in the corners of Zayn’s eyes, he thinks. “That explains more than it doesn’t.”

“What?”

“Why you’re so…” he waves a hand in Harry’s general direction. “Harry Styles.” 

“I think I was like that before I was, you know, Harry Styles.” Harry narrows his eyes in thought, wrinkles his nose and looks up. “I mean, I kissed all the ladies at the bakery a lot, too, and I wasn’t famous or anything then.”

“You kissed your bosses like that?” 

Harry flashes a grin, the one dirty enough to wet a girl’s panties at twenty yards. “Not exactly like that, no.” 

“No wonder there are rumors about you sleeping your way to the top.” 

Something in Harry freezes at that. He knows those rumors exist. He knows people talk about them on twitter and tumblr and all those other places he refuses to look at because it hurts too much. He just—it’s been a long time since someone mentioned them to his face. Even interviewers aren’t allowed to anymore, not since Louis went off on one in one of the mutual interviews they aren’t allowed to have anymore. And it hurts, it does. That people say it. That _Zayn_ says it. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, because it’s all he can think to say. Because that’s been his default thing to say for longer than it hasn’t. Because he has to say something or Zayn might notice the tears hinting at the corner of his eyes. “I mean, I haven’t, I swear, but—”

“Hey, hey, babe,” Zayn twitches, a little like he wants to go to Harry, to touch him or comfort him or something. His face’s definitely softened, to be sure. “I didn’t mean you did. I don’t think you did. You’re too talented, yeah? I mean, no one who isn’t bitter at you for beating their favorite off of X Factor or something really thinks that, because it’s ridiculous.” He’s leaning forward now, looking lovely and concerned, and those eyes that burned just a second ago are soft and worried now and having his gaze on Harry feels like taking a warm bath, or stepping into the sun on a chilly fall day, where the sun is edged by the clouds and tree leaves like Zayn’s eyelashes, so Harry concentrates on making sure he still looks sad so Zayn will keep looking at him like this. “Everyone knows the media and the tabloids and shit blow this shit out of proportion, and trust me, I hear enough about your fandom from my sister, and they don’t even think it’s remotely a possibility, and you are so shitting me right now.” 

Harry grins, a big, helpless, faux-innocent grin. “I wouldn’t.”

“You absolutely would.” Zayn leans back, but he rests his hands on the edge of the desk too, opening up his shoulders so Harry can notice that they’re surprisingly broad, for his slim hips and skinny legs. His lips are twitching, a little. “I had a mate like you in uni, a thousand times worse than you, really. I’m on to you.” 

“Think I would notice if you were on me,” Harry retorts, and Zayn’s lips twitch again. He’s definitely starting to amuse him. Good. Everyone who’s ever liked Harry starts with thinking he’s a little weird and a little amusing. 

“On to, not on,” Zayn corrects. “Don’t get too hopeful.”

“Too late.” 

Zayn tips his head back and laughs, a rich, echoing sound that bounces through Harry’s brain and short-circuits it, because if he’s hot normally and beautiful when he smiles Harry doesn’t even have words for him when he laughs. He sort of wants the London crowd to see him, for Alexa and Nick and all, so they can stop being snobs and see what small towns can make, and also so they can dress him in sharp suits and skinny ties and all the pretty clothes that management puts Harry in but he never feels like he can quite pull off. But he sort of doesn’t, too, because there’s something about Zayn in his jeans and t-shirts and beaming smile and wild laughter and snarky comments, something he doesn’t want to share. 

“Oh, Harry. I’m afraid I might start to like you.”

“Afraid enough to kick me out?”

“Afraid enough to ask you why you’re here.”

“Something’s wrong with my car.”

“Nothing’s wrong with your car.”

“Something could be!”

“I just looked last week.” Zayn gives him an even, unimpressed look, “Unless you managed to get into an accident, nothing’s wrong. And if you did, Safaa would have been sobbing and telling me to drive down to London and insist on fixing your car.” 

“Would you have come?”

“Of course not. There are plenty of mechanics in London.”

“But none that take care of my car like you.”

“You mean none that look like me.” 

Harry doesn’t falter. “It’s a draw, yeah. But maybe I could want you for your superior mechanicing skills.” 

“Babe, no one wants me for my super mechanicing skills. Which isn’t a word, by the way.” 

“I know!” Harry protests, “But what is the word? I’ve been trying to find one and I can’t figure it out.” 

“Auto repair skills,” Zayn informs him, and Harry beams back. 

“Thanks! Now have I managed to seduce you with my charm, yet, or do I have to keep trying?”

Zayn snorts. “You’ll have to do better than that.” 

He sticks out his lower lip in a pout. “You’re being difficult.”

Zayn walks forward, then, paces up to Harry until he’s close, so close, painfully close, so he can lean into Harry, whisper against his neck like Harry did last time, dark and rich and warm. “You have no idea.” 

It goes straight to Harry’s dick, hitting him hard enough that he just whimpers. Zayn stays leaning in, close enough that he must feel Harry’s shiver, and he chuckles again, unrepentant. “Come back when you think you can handle me,” he whispers again, and comes right into Harry’s space to push the door open behind him. Then he steps back, and raises his eyebrows at Harry. 

Harry goes, mainly because it’s that or tackle Zayn right then and that could get him arrested or something. As he drives away, Zayn’s leaning against the door of the shop, and he raises a hand in a wave when Harry turns the corner. 

He’s hard, he didn’t get off, and this fucking mechanic from the middle of nowhere definitely just got the best of him. He’s never telling Louis. But he is most definitely coming back. 

\---

 

He doesn’t make it back the next day, because he has an interview during the day and a club that night, or the next, because he wakes up really late and then Grimmy’s got a party he should go to, or the next, because Louis decides it’s a movie night. And if he doesn’t sleep on Friday night because of the whisper of Zayn’s voice in his ear like a taunt that keeps him hot and bothered even after he wanks off to it, or if he doesn’t pull at the party because he can still taste Zayn on his lips, or if Louis and Liam keep giving him odd glances on Sunday because apparently he’s being quiet, that’s neither here nor there. Except for how Harry is here, and not there, where there is Zayn’s bed or car or bike or wherever he’ll let Harry touch him again. 

Louis pulls Harry aside, after Liam’s headed out for the night with a stern admonition that Harry be on time for the photoshoot he has in two days. Harry gives him two thumbs up and an earnest nod, which makes Liam shake his head but not say anything. He’s always so sure Harry’s such a screw up, that he needs fifteen million texts a day to get anywhere he’s supposed to be, which, like, maybe Harry was once, when he was sixteen, but he hasn’t been that scatterbrained in years. Except for when he was late to the interview last week, but that was entirely out of his control because if Liam saw Zayn, he’d understand even though he’s straight. And his car breaking down and everything.

But anyway, Louis grabs onto Harry’s shoulder and doesn’t let him follow Liam out, just pulls him into the kitchen so they can lean against the once-shiney island. Harry always feels a pang of sympathy for Louis’s kitchen, because it would be so nice if he cleaned it. Or used it for more than the microwave. “Are you okay, Hazza?” Louis asks as soon as they’re alone. 

Harry tilts his head to look at him. He’s got his serious, concerned big brother face on, the one he used when the twins were getting bullied about their famous big brother or when Liam had been heartbroken when Danielle broke up with him. It makes Harry worried. What if he’s not okay actually, and he didn’t know but Louis’s figured it out and it deserves the look? “Yeah?” he replies, but he’s not so sure of it. 

“ ‘Yeah?’ or ‘yeah.’” 

“What’s the difference?”

“One’s a question, one’s a statement.”

“The statement one, then.”

“You sure?” Louis leans in, puts a hand on Harry’s arm. This must be serious. Harry tries desperately to think of anything that might be wrong, that he might have been concerned about, but there’s just the Zayn thing and that’s barely a thing and there wasn’t another pregnancy scare that management hadn’t told him about, was there? He hates those because he wouldn’t mind a baby, honestly, even if he’s not in the best place for it, but management always gets really panicky. 

“Yeah?” he tries again. Then, because that didn’t work last time. “Yeah.” 

“You’ve been pretty quiet, and you disappeared a few times, and you seem really distracted…” Louis trails off, and looks away from Harry, which is another bad sign. Louis’s never unsure. It’s one of the most intimidating and greatest things about him, and probably why he’s made it this far. But then all at once he looks up and meets Harry’s eyes with his most piercing stare, the kind that makes magazines go on about ‘electric blue eyes’ and ‘rock star gaze’. “You haven’t been doing anything stupid, have you?”

“Stupid?”

“Anything you wouldn’t want to tell your mum about. You know… the stuff people give you?” Louis waves his arm, but Harry understands. He doesn’t get it quite as much as Louis—the difference between pop and rock—but he gets the offers too, of white powders in little baggies or, ‘you want a hit, man?’.

And he knows Louis’s paranoid about this stuff, because he went a little crazy when he hit it big, before Harry knew him, but he’s heard stories from Louis and magazines, about the kind of wild he was then, how much he didn’t ask for help. He’s calmed down now—blames El and his mum for that—but he’s always on the look out, now. Still, 

“No, of course not!” Harry jerks away from Louis’s comforting hands. “I wouldn’t, I don’t—just weed and shit, you know that.” 

“Yeah, I know, but can’t hurt to check.” The serious face is gone, replaced by one of Louis’s shiteating grins that also makes Harry nervous for entirely different reasons, so he looks behind him to make sure no one’s sneaking up to pants him or something. “Is it something else, then? Is there a someone?”

“No!” Harry retorts. Zayn isn’t a someone, he justifies. And he doesn’t want—he doesn’t want to bring him into this. Wants to keep him to himself. Even if Louis’s his best mate and he tells him most everything. He just—Zayn’s his. Or not, which is also the thing, because if he said something Louis would probably follow him next time he went and then give Zayn a high-five for not sleeping with Harry and then they would be friends from making fun of Harry’s music and Harry would never get laid and would get made fun of forever. None of which he wants. “No, I’m just tired, I think. Break’s never really break, you know?”

“Oh, god, do I,” Louis agrees, and strides back out of the kitchen to throw himself onto one of his lovely, comfortable couches that are half the reason Harry sometimes pretends to fall asleep after movie nights so Louis doesn’t move him because he’s secretly a total softy. “I could sleep for months, and I’m going on tour again before that.” 

Harry nods sympathetically, because he gets it, how draining it is, and topples on top of Louis for a rejuvenating cuddle. 

\---

The shop is empty when Harry pulls up there on Monday. Admittedly, Harry thinks when he parks the car, glances around to see if anyone with cameras around, then gets out of the car, it is only nine, so maybe they don’t open that early, but he had expected someone to be there. But the lot is definitely empty. Maybe it’s going out of business, and Harry will have to make an angel donation to the Malik family to keep their livelihood afloat and Zayn will be so grateful he’ll have to sleep with Harry. He ignores Gemma’s voice that tells him it’s still prostitution if it’s semi-voluntary because it’s not like it’s happening and he can fantasize about what he wants, and if that’s Zayn sidling up to him and throwing his arms around his neck and calling him his hero and then kissing him with those pink lips so his cheeks will get red from beard burn, that’s his business. 

There’re hours posted on the door; they claim it’s open from nine til five. Harry narrows his eyes at the sign. It’s nine, and the door still says closed, and it doesn’t look like there are any lights on inside. Zayn couldn’t know he’s coming, so he couldn’t be avoiding him. Maybe they’re opening late today for some reason? 

Harry jogs back to his car so he can sit there while he googles Malik’s Auto Repair, then sorts through the few thousand hits before he gets the right one, but there’s nothing on their website that says they’ll be opening late today, or, for that matter, that anyone’s looked at the website for years. Harry’s not good at computer things himself, other than, like Instagram, which he is pretty much the master of, and Twitter, which the PR people forced him to learn, but even he knows this website looks like no one cares about it. Maybe the business really did fold.

He’s midway through considering if driving into town to stop at the nearest place where people look like they know Zayn are and asking about him is as bad an idea as the Liam in his head is telling him when he hears the thrumming of a motorcycle engine, and then, when he cranes his neck around to look up the street, Zayn’s bike come screeching in to the lot. Zayn, in loose grey sweatpants today that really are probably not safe for riding in and a pullover sweatshirt, throws himself off of it and darts into the shop without sparing a glance for Harry’s car. Harry glances at the clock on his phone. 9:30. 

Then he gets out and follows Zayn into the office, pulling the door open with a cheerful “Hello!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to thank all of you for still reading even though there wasn't a sex scene in the last chapter. If it makes you feel better, I think that might be the only chapter without one. Maybe one of two. 
> 
> As for updates, while usually I will do it every 2-3 days, you get this one early because I'll be away this weekend and the next one won't be up until Monday. Sorry! This also means you quite possibly won't get replies to comments until then as well. 
> 
> On to more serious topics: I've gotten a number of comments about people feeling uncomfortable about Harry's actions in the previous chapters, or even being triggered by it. You might have noticed I changed the tags to address this, as I don't want to trigger anyone. However, this is a fic that is looking at power dynamics and how they shape a relationship, so even though there's a HEA (I can't not, this is fic after all and I'm incapable of writing anything else), not everyone's actions will always be or have been up to the highest moral standards. People's actions aren't, and I try to stay true to the characters above all else. (I am not, of course, saying anything about the real Zayn and Harry, because what do I know about them?) So yes, Harry's actions may make you uncomfortable, and while I always welcome all feedback and comments in any form--good. I'm glad it does, because it should. That being said, most of the really questionable stuff should be over. 
> 
> For any of you who waded through this hours long author's note, thanks, and enjoy the chapter!

Zayn’s peering at his reflection in a darkened window of the office, but he turns at Harry’s voice and his eyes widen. He looks softer somehow, like this, in sweatpants and a tank top that reveals even more ink at his chest—Harry’ll have to work on investigating that—and some bits of dark hair peeking out from beneath his beanie. Harry simultaneously wants to cuddle with him and stick his hands down his pants. It’s a little confusing. 

“What are you doing here?” Zayn demands. His voice is a little rough, like he’s just woken up or been smoking or been fucking, or all three, but his eyes are bigger than they have any right to be when he also has cheekbones like that. 

“Said to come back when I could handle you.” Harry lets the door close behind him. “I can handle you.”

Zayn blinks. “Fuck, it’s too early for this,” he swears under his breath, then goes to push his hair back from his face only to encounter the beanie, so he lets his hand drop. This is a different Zayn from the ones Harry’s seen before, a Zayn who isn’t mad and cold and a little mean. This one is sort of like the one he was with his sister, with his edges blurred and hard corners cushioned. “And let me tell you, babe, anyone can handle me at this hour,” he says, louder. “Why’re you here?”

“Car broke down,” Harry says, with another grin, and steps closer. Zayn steps back. 

“At nine in the morning?”

“I have places to be.”

“Like here.”

“Like important places, with important people.” Harry wishes he could think of some really impressive people offhand, like Stephen Fry or Stephen Colbert who would really impress Zayn, but he hasn’t actually been on those shows. But he does know important people. “You know, Simon Cowell, Ed Sheeran, Nick Grimshaw, Louis Tomlinson…”

“Doesn’t count when one of them’s the head of your record label, another’s your songwriter, and the other two are your best mates,” Zayn counters, and covers a yawn with one hand. 

Harry bites his lips at him. “Keeping up with me, are you?”

“Obsessed little sister.” 

“So you live at home?”

“Nah. But I spend a lot of time there. And she isn’t exactly shy on sharing about you.” Zayn shrugs, and yawns again. “But seriously, why are you here?”

“You told me to come back,” Harry says again. Because that’s the only answer he has, really. He doesn’t know why he’s so enchanted with this man with his beautiful face and heart-wrenching smile and scornful demeanor. He doesn’t know why he keeps coming back, why he’s thought of him whenever he’s pulled for the last week. Harry’s not really a creature of ‘whys’ anyway.

“Didn’t actually expect you to.” 

There’s the sound of an engine outside. Harry looks up in a panic. He can’t—people can’t see him here. 

Zayn sighs as the engine cuts off, then rips off the beanie and tosses it to Harry. “Either leave, or put this on, and these, here.” He pulls a pair of sunglasses out of the desk drawer and throws them to him too. “And stay quiet.” 

Harry isn’t leaving. Instead, he tucks himself into the corner of the office and pulls his knees up beneath his chin. In his skinny jeans and flannel shirts, maybe he can pass as some footloose friend of Zayn’s or something. Surely this town can’t be so small that everyone literally knows each other. 

It’s an old woman who comes in, leaning on her cane until Zayn hurries forward to help her, and Harry relaxes. There’s very little chance she’d know who Harry Styles is. “Hello, Zayn, dear,” she says, and despite the way she leans on Zayn her voice is strong and a bit wicked, “Drew the short straw?”

Zayn grins back at her, his hand on her elbow so it looks like he’s escorting her rather than helping her. It’s sweet, really. “Think dad’s mad at me,” Zayn admits, biting at his lip sheepishly. Or Harry assumes it’s sheepish, because to him it just reads hot. 

“Your father was just as bad at your age,” the woman informs him, shaking her head with a laugh. Then she catches sight of Harry. “And who’s this? I don’t recognize him.”

“He’s…a friend from uni,” Zayn says quickly. Harry flashes a grin at him. He’s never been good at thinking of lies on his feet. “He’s down for the day from London.”

“And he’s keeping you company at work? How sweet.”

“Adorable,” Zayn drawls, rolling his eyes over the woman’s head as Harry unfolds himself from the corner and hopes to god she doesn’t recognize him. 

“I am adorable,” Harry tells Zayn, with a wink for the old lady. “I’m Harry. Lovely to meet you.”

“And you,” the old woman says, and her grin is as cheeky as his. “Where do you come from, then?”

“Cheshire,” Harry replies, because he’s always been shit at lying. “But I’m working in London, now.” 

“Doing what?”

“Oh, music.” 

“Did you need something, Mrs. Kelly?” Zayn interrupts, which is probably a good thing overall. 

“Oh, yes, your father mentioned I should have an oil change soon. Can you deal with that, dear, while I chat with your friend here?” She waves a hand at him, and Zayn huffs out a breath that’s half a laugh before he heads outside. 

Harry, though, is trapped inside, not even getting to see Zayn work on more cars. And this one would involve him leaning over the hood a lot, he thinks mournfully, probably reaching and stretching and making his shirt ride up and his sweatpants press against his ass. And then he would get all oily and a little shiny and smooth and Harry would have to help him clean up, because it would only be polite, really. And—

“So what did you study at university?” Mrs Kelly asks, with a sidelong look. 

Harry never went to university. But he pulls an answer out, because it’s what Louis studied and he talks about it endlessly even if he never finished his degree. “Drama.” He hopes Zayn went to a university with a drama program. And hopefully not in some place Harry knows nothing about. 

“ _Oh_ ,” is all she replies, though, like that means something. Her eyes narrow at him, but then she shakes her head. Harry can’t even figure out what that might mean, so he doesn’t ask. 

They can hear the door of the garage closing, and then the light inside turns on. Harry inches to his right. Maybe another foot, and he could see inside… 

“Would you like to switch places with me?” she asks. Harry nearly jumps. But when he looks at her, she winks outrageously at him. “You can see in better from here.”

“Then yes, I would,” Harry replies easily, and slides to her other side. Sure enough, he can see in, and Zayn has popped open the hood on a sedan and is standing in front of it, so he’s in profile to Harry. If Harry was at all capable of painting, he thinks he’d want to paint it, the perfect features, the strong jaw, the sweep of those eyelashes. And then Zayn bites his lip in thought, and oh, that’s just not fair. 

“A friend, then?” Mrs. Kelly asks, and despite her age her smirk is unmistakable. Harry gives his best pop star charming laugh, and holds out a hand towards her, palm up. 

“Not if I’d be competing with you, of course. There’d be no hope, then.” 

She does the proper thing when he’s being charming and laughs. “Oh, I’d have given you a run for your money fifty years ago.”

“You could give me a run for my money now,” Harry replies. This is easy, the flirty banter that charms without anyone expecting anything. “In fact, I might just leave Zayn and sweep you off your feet.” 

He leans down, as if he’s going to pick her up, and she swats at him playfully. “My husband might have something to say about that.”

Harry pouts at that. “We can duel for you. Pistols at dawn, right? That’s how it’s done?”

“Oh, I like you.” She grins at him, and he grins back, dimpling. This is how it’s supposed to work. People meet him. Then they like him. Then, if the ages are appropriate and there’s no other problems, they have sex with him. He doesn’t know why Zayn isn’t getting this. “Are you planning on staying long?”

“I have to be in London by this evening.” Zayn’s stopped biting his lip, and is now fiddling with something in the car, or something. Harry doesn’t know. All he knows is that he can see the muscles of Zayn’s arm twist and flex under the smooth lines of ink, that those fingers which had dug into his hair barely a week ago are working over some sort of gauge. “Anything else depends on Zayn.” 

“You should stay anyway,” she says, very seriously. Harry manages to stop looking at Zayn fucking licking his lips to glance at her. She’s got very knowing eyes fixed on him. “He needs someone, that boy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I would think a friend would know,” she replies, and the stress she puts on ‘friend’ leaves no doubt what she expects it means. As she’s not wrong, Harry doesn’t correct her. “He’s not really been the same since he came home. I think he just needs a nice girlfriend to cheer him up.” She pauses significantly. “Or a boyfriend.”

“I do know a lot of good jokes,” Harry agrees, even if Louis always tells him his jokes are awful. “Have you heard the one with the banana?”

“If that’s the only way you can cheer him up, I must be losing my sight as well as my hearing,” she retorts, and Harry laughs again. He can’t help it if he looks at Zayn like he wants him. He’s never been good at hiding what he wants. 

It takes another ten minutes for Zayn to finish doing whatever he’s supposed to be doing with the car, which Harry spends dividing his attention between admiring Zayn and chatting with Mrs. Kelly, who is a pretty awesome old lady. Harry’s not entirely kidding when he said he’d sweep her off her feet. Especially because once Zayn comes back in she beams at Harry as she pays and thanks Zayn for lending her ‘his young man’. Zayn smiles reluctantly, but he raises his eyebrows at Harry over her head when she turns to bid Harry farewell. 

Harry grins innocently at Zayn, and leans down to kiss Mrs. Kelly on the cheek. She kisses him back, then flicks her eyes pointedly back to Zayn and laughs as she goes. 

Zayn stays behind the desk when she leaves, which Harry takes as a good sign because it means he needs something between them to stop him from jumping Harry. Or, less pleasantly, to stop Harry from jumping him, but Harry resisted even when he had looked up at him through the window with those eyelashes and those lips, so he figures he should be getting a medal, not needing to be defended against. 

“You certainly got her to like you,” Zayn observes, once the door is firmly shut behind her. He rummages in a drawer, pulls out a plastic water bottle. 

“I’m a very likable person.” Harry crosses the room, settles on a corner of the desk and tries to cross his legs nonchalantly. He feels a little like some Madmen secretary trying to seduce her boss. It’s a pretty fun feeling. He’d have been a kickass secretary when being a secretary meant being attractive and sleeping with powerful people. Now he’d probably end up seducing his boss out of pure boredom, then get fired. 

“I’m sure you are.” Zayn takes a sip of the water, and it’s fucking obscene, the way his lips wrap around the neck of the water bottle, how his throat works. Harry’s mouth goes dry just looking, so, 

“And she thinks you need to get some,” Harry adds. Zayn chokes, splutters, and in retrospect it probably wasn’t a good idea if he wanted to be less aroused to make Zayn look like he’s just swallowed too much of something phallic. He needs a banana. 

“What?” Zayn demands, breathless. And fuck if Harry doesn’t want to make him sound like that, like he’s had too much shoved down his throat and he’s hoarse and aching with it. 

“She thinks,” Harry says, trying not to sound like he’s as turned on as he is, “that we should have sex to cheer you up.”

“She said that?”

“Well, implied more, I guess?” Harry shrugs, then grins as dirtily as he knows how. “But orders are orders, right?” 

Zayn sighs, and puts down the water bottle after screwing the top back on. “What are you doing here?” he asks, and then when Harry starts to answer with something cheeky he hasn’t quite figured out yet, Zayn holds up a hand to interrupt him. “No, seriously. I got it the first time, that was just getting off with a random bloke, but why are you coming back?” 

There’s something about him in that moment, in those hazel eyes or the set of his lips, that makes Harry not give the flirty answer he was planning. 

“I don’t know,” he says instead. Because he doesn’t. “I just, you’re fit, and then you said no, and then you changed your mind, and then you were smiling and laughing and it was, just, I dunno. I want you. It’s fine if you don’t. But I want you all the time.”

There’s a long, long second, where nothing happens. Where those words hang in the air like they’re actual things, like Harry’s actually a wizard like he imagined being when he was ten and reading Harry Potter and pretending he was the other Harry (he’d always wanted to be in Ravenclaw, but now he thinks he’d probably be a Hufflepuff, and he’s okay with that. Zayn, he thinks, would be a Slytherin, but one of the good ones, that were in Slytherin because they were pretty and cool and reserved, but then fought for Hogwarts and didn’t like Voldemort) and he’d managed to cast some sort of spell. 

Then Zayn blinks, once, and it looks like he kind of deflates with it. “Sure.”

“What?”

“Sure.”

“Sure?” Harry echoes, and he can feel himself start to grin, his dimples deepening until it’s almost painful, and he doesn’t care that he looks about ten when he smiles like this, Zayn just agreed to have sex with him. “Sure, like, we can fuck?” 

Zayn blinks again, and then shakes his head a little, like he’s clearing it. “Yeah. Sure like we can fuck, Harry.”

“Great!” Harry nearly leaps to his feet, stumbles over a bit of loose paper, and finds his footing again. “You can lock the door, right? Because I’d rather not have pictures of my bare ass over the internet, but—”

“Not right now!” Zayn laughs, and it might not be the way he laughed at his sister, but there’s a wry twist to his lips like Harry’s making him amused again, and they’re going to fuck, so everything’s a win. “This is my job, we can’t—if someone had walked in last time, fuck.” 

“Then when?” Harry demands, crosses his arm and pouts. He’s good at pouting. It’s adorable. It even gets Nick to do things for him. 

“When I get off.” Harry snorts. Zayn rolls his eyes. “That too, I guess. But my dad’ll come in at noon, I can take lunch then.”

“And by lunch you mean…”

“And by lunch I mean you, yes.” Zayn rolls his eyes again, then shoves at Harry’s shoulder. “So go hover in your car or find something to do until then.” 

“Can’t I stay here?” Harry flutters his eyelashes temptingly. His eyelashes might not be as nice as Zayn’s, but he’s still gotten compliments on them. 

“I’m just going to be working on some things in the shop, it’ll be boring.” 

“I like watching you work,” Harry purrs, and he gets the satisfaction of watching Zayn’s tongue darting out to lick his lips at that. 

So he does stay. He stays and sits on a stool Zayn directs him to and fiddles with tools on the nearby bench as Zayn disappears under a car and fantasizes about his legs and asks him about all the things he’s doing and doesn’t understand any of them but he likes to hear Zayn’s voice when he replies, likes to imagine what it’s going to be like to have that voice telling him filthy things later. Or he rambles about the photoshoot he has tomorrow for GQ and how he’s probably going to be on the Breakfast Club again soon and the party he went to with Nick a few days ago and all the cool people that were there, and Zayn makes snorting noises every once in a while but then sometimes he asks questions like he was really listening and Harry grins even though he can’t see and answers as well as he knows how. 

And then finally, finally, it’s 11:45, and Zayn rolls out his neck and gets within arm’s reach of Harry. Harry, very nobly, he thinks, doesn’t pull him in the rest of the way. 

“My dad’ll be here soon, you should leave,” Zayn tells him, turning away to reach for his sweatshirt. 

“Then where—” 

“My place.” Zayn pulls out some keys, tosses them to Harry, and reels off an address. “You’ve got GPS, right? Meet me there. You can go in or whatever, not like there’s anything you’d bother stealing.” 

“Can we have a password too? I’ll only let you in if you say bananas.”

Zayn snorts, and reaches out for a second like he’s going to ruffle Harry’s hair or something before his hand drops back to his side. “It’s my place, you don’t have to let me in.”

“Oh. Right.” He kinda liked feeling like he was in a spy movie, where he’s James Bond and Zayn is the sexy contact he needs to get information off of but is too pretty not to fuck. 

“I’ll see you then.” Zayn turns around, like he’s going to go back to the cars, and that just feels—it’s like a meeting or something, meet you at 12 sounds good, like he does with Simon, or even when he and Louis are planning to hang out –a ‘yours in an hour?’ sort of thing—so he reaches out and he does grab Zayn by the hips, pulls him in so he’s standing in between Harry’s legs. With Harry sitting down, Zayn’s taller, so he tilts his head up and leans in and Zayn lets out another breath that sounds sort of exasperated but he doesn’t move away, lets Harry kiss him quick and fast and hard, nipping at his lip like a promise of what’s to come, because Harry is going to blow his fucking mind and leave him wanting Harry just as much as he wants Zayn. 

Then he lets Zayn go, grins at him, and stands up so they’re as close as they could possibly be without falling over. “I’ll see you then,” he echoes, and drags himself against Zayn’s body when he goes. 

\---

He finds Zayn’s flat easily enough, a little place above some sort of takeaway shop that Harry kind of ignores because he has to keep his head down on the sidewalk. He figures out the keys after a little bit of fumbling, then slips upstairs to the second floor and lets himself in there too. 

It’s… kind of tiny, really. Like, about a quarter as big as Harry’s apartment, if that, and that’s not with ridiculous London space-price problems. It’s a studio, with a tiny kitchenette in one corner with a door that probably leads to the bathroom off of it. A bed that takes up most of the rest of the room, except for the part that are bookshelves. The walls are lined with prints of paintings, mainly pop art, Harry thinks, from what Nick’s managed to tell him when he drags him to art shows, but there’s also something he’s pretty sure is Impressionism and, like, maybe Picasso? Harry’s not sure, but he likes it, likes the way it gives the room an artsy sort of feel. Likes the room itself, with all the books on the walls and the kitchen with more books and other shit piled on the counter, the refrigerator covered with photos of girls who look enough like Zayn to be his sisters and a few other boys about Zayn’s age—friends, Harry thinks, noting the one with the blonde whose arm is thrown around Zayn’s shoulder and who’s laughing into the camera like it’s the funniest thing in the world. And even if they aren’t, he’s the one who’s going to fuck Zayn, so there. 

He toes off his shoes and socks, because that’s always the most awkward thing about hooking up with someone, taking off shoes, because it’s such an unsexy thing to do. Although—he has a sudden thought of kneeling in front of Zayn, sliding those combat boots off and letting his fingers drag down Zayn’s calf, looking up at Zayn as he presses a kiss to his knee and watching Zayn biting his lip above him, and—okay, maybe taking shoes off isn’t the worst ever. But he still does, leaves them by the door because it’s only polite, and stares at the bed. 

He could get naked, maybe pose provocatively on the bed. He’s always pro getting naked. But he also, well, he also doesn’t want to scare Zayn off or anything, and he has it on good authority—Nick and Liam—that his penchant for being naked all the time sometimes puts people off. But Zayn is going to walk in that door and they are going to fuck and he wants as little time in between those two moments as possible. And as much of the time in between spent with a lot of touching Zayn’s skin, and Zayn’s going to have to get naked which will take time, even if it’s good time, unwrapping a present sort of time. But maybe Zayn wants to unwrap him, he doesn’t want to deprive Zayn of that. And these jeans make his ass look rather fabulous, even Louis says so. 

So he moves to the bookshelves instead, starts to study them. There’s everything on them, _Don Quixote_ and _Hunger Games_ and every Harry Potter and Tolstoy and what the hell is a mechanic doing with Tolstoy, and Dostoyevsky next to him, and Chaucer and Dante and Ginsberg and Mievelle? It’s like that time he used Latin, that first time, when he had been wearing a leather jacket and talking like Nick talked sometimes, smart and educated and all those things Harry had never considered because he was too busy singing his heart out on a stage when he should have been in uni. It’s another thing about Zayn he doesn’t understand, like his inexplicable ability to not be charmed by Harry, or his inexplicable ability to be prettier than everyone else combined. 

Harry picks out the first Hunger Games, and settles onto the bed with it, trying to resist the urge to inhale the scent of the blankets, smoke and sweat and the same Zayn he’d smelled whenever he managed to get close enough to him to inhale. He tries to read, he does, but he keeps getting distracted noticing things about the room—the cigarette box on the nightstand, which explains the smoke that clings to him all the time, the People magazine on the floor, the one from a few weeks ago that Louis was on the cover of, which maybe one of his sisters left here, the bottle of spray paint that’s rolled against the closet door, which Harry has no explanation for. 

He’s no more than two pages in when he hears a noise on the landing and a key turning in the lock. He immediately pulls the book up in front of his face, arranges himself attractively on the bed, so he’s splayed out there with one knee drawn up and the other lying straight, like an invitation for Zayn to fit himself between them, but hopefully doesn’t come off like he means to look that way, and buries himself in the pages. 

It would probably have worked a lot better if he resisted the urge to look up when the door swings open, and had managed not to grin when Zayn closed the door behind him, clearly taking too much time facing it and locking it, as if he needs a moment to get his head on. 

Harry’s never been good about giving people moments. He drops the book and springs to his feet, crosses the room in a few short strides, and then his hands are on Zayn’s hips, tugging him backwards so he fits into Harry like that’s where he’s supposed to be. Zayn lets out a breath, but he lets Harry pull him in, tilts his head when Harry gives in to the urge to see if his neck tastes as good as he remembers, which, yes, it does. And now he can also keep going after he’s sucked a good bruise there to replace the one that’s faded, can shove the neckline of Zayn’s t-shirt aside with his nose and keep biting down his shoulder, which is far tenser than it should be, even if that makes all sorts of pretty muscles stand out, so Harry tries to smooth that tension away with a gentle kiss to the bones there, because sex is never something to be tense about. 

Zayn makes a little bit of a moaning noise that goes straight to Harry’s already half-hard dick, but that reminds Harry of just how little of their skin is actually touching. So he lets his hands untangle from Zayn’s pants and yank at the hem of Zayn’s shirt, pull it upwards over his head and neck as Zayn moves his arms to help, so there’s a long, beautiful expanse of skin there, with all these muscles shifting under it, and the feather at his collar that is—just—

Harry groans, and licks it, then spins Zayn around to see the rest. And there’s ink everywhere, more than he had imagined even with the sleeve, wings on his chest and a skull on either shoulder and some writing on his collarbone, that Harry doesn’t have time to read, but is definitely not English and might mean something. Then his gaze flicks downward, and fuck, there’s more things he wants to bite, like, right now, a heart on one hip bone and more writing on the other, but he also wants to keep looking at Zayn, so instead he just fits his thumbs over them. His hands feel like they could just wrap around Zayn, like they could keep him in that one place, pressed between Harry and the door, forever, like Harry could stay here forever to keep him here. 

But he looks up instead, into Zayn’s face, and that—that was possibly a mistake, because Zayn’s eyes are black with arousal, and he’s got something that’s almost a smirk on, as he lifts one eyebrow in a question, like, like what you see? 

Harry does, and Harry thinks Zayn knows that he does, because he can probably feel the proof pressing into his thigh, but he still bites his lip at him and watches those eyelashes flutter for a second, before he gives into temptation and kisses Zayn. 

And it’s—it’s like drowning, and coming home, and losing himself all at once, like a good kiss always is, but also more. Like he wants Zayn’s lips to be on fire so they can brand themselves against him, like he wants to taste not just the inside of Zayn’s mouth, like he is now, his tongue circling and delving and trying to cover as much space as he can, but also the inside of Zayn, period, to see the parts of him that make him tick, that make his eyes go dark and wanting like that, that make his fingers close over Harry’s shoulders and pull him closer, then trail up Harry’s neck and dig into his hair hard enough to be just on this side of hurting.

Harry breaks off, pulls his lips off of Zayn’s, and Zayn makes an irritated noise that cuts off when Harry moves his lips back down to his collarbone, so he tastes that mysterious line of ink, so that he can leave his mark there too, all those places Zayn hadn’t wanted him to be allowed to touch that he could now. His hands move lower too, grabbing at Zayn’s ass and squeezing and lifting so that he forces Zayn up on his toes, can get a better angle to lick at the wing over Zayn’s pecs. Zayn goes, then digs his fingers into Harry’s shoulder and pulls, wraps his legs around Harry’s waist, and drags their lips back together. 

Harry groans into his mouth, because as much as this is probably a bad idea, as much as he is almost certainly going to drop Zayn, it’s also hot as hell to have Zayn pressed against him like this. And also, he can kiss Zayn and walk backwards now, manages miraculously not to trip on anything until he tumbles backwards onto the bed, when Zayn lands above him anyway and doesn’t stop kissing him even then. 

“Too many clothes,” he breathes, his finger fumbling at Harry’s buttons, and Harry grins because no one’s ever said that about him before, but he lets Zayn undo each one of the buttons on his shirt and pushes himself up onto his elbows so Zayn can shove it off. But then Zayn just sits back on his knee, stills straddling Harry, and looks. 

“What?” Harry whines, because everything was going so well and now it’s stopping and this is not okay. 

Zayn shakes his head, biting at his lip. “I always forget how stupid your tattoos are,” he says, quietly, almost as if Harry’s not meant to hear. 

“Does it mean we have to stop?” It’s not the first time someone’s given him shit for his tattoos, and it won’t be the last, because he knows they’re random and weird and not the organized sort of chaos that’s decorating Zayn’s skin but he doesn’t care, especially when Zayn’s sitting almost directly on his crotch but there’s still a few layers of cloth between them. 

“Fuck no.” And Zayn leans forward to kiss him again, one of his fingers circling Harry’s nipple as he does, and Harry squirms and groans and arches his hips up, and he can feel Zayn’s smirk against his lips, and somehow that’s even hotter. His hands run down to the edges of Zayn’s hips, then yank, pulling down his sweats and pants in one go, and Zayn lifts himself up to help, and then Harry swears under his breath and also thanks god because Zayn Malik naked is possibly the best thing he’s ever seen. There are still more tattoos on his thighs, and what isn’t black ink is tanned and beautiful. 

Zayn grins, but Harry can’t wait any longer. He rolls, flips them over so Zayn’s on his back beneath him, then starts kissing down his chest. He lingers for a while on the wings, takes his time on the heart, outlining it with his tongue while his hands hold Zayn’s hips still so Zayn is writhing and swearing, his hands digging into Harry’s shoulders, then detours around his dick to bite at his thighs, leaving little teeth marks that he hopes fucking lasts, that will stay there for days so Zayn remembers what he did. 

“Fuck it, Styles, haven’t got all day,” Zayn growls, “Just—fucking—”

Harry licks up Zayn’s dick for that, just because, but he—well, he wants, too, wants Zayn really writhing beneath him, wants to see what Zayn looks like when he’s fucking him, so he looks up for a second from between Zayn’s thighs, takes a moment to appreciate the bitten lips, the flushed cheeks, the hair wild around his face, and asks, “Do you have—”

“Yeah, nightstand, and yeah you’ve got to use a fucking condom—”

“I’ll have you know I’m clean.” But Harry still drags himself over Zayn to get to the nightstand, to get out condom and lube. Zayn closes his eyes as he slicks up his fingers, so he takes his time with it, takes his time admiring Zayn splayed across the blankets, like a fucking work of art only Harry gets to see. 

Then he goes to work taking him apart even farther. 

The first finger slides in smoothly, and Zayn shifts a little, getting used to it, before Harry adds a second, as his other hand tugs idly at Zayn’s dick. Zayn moans at that one, presses down against his fingers, so Harry adds a third, scissoring his fingers so Zayn’s breath goes hoarse and his hips arch, like he can’t decide whether or not to push down against him. Then—he crooks his finger, and Zayn’s “ _fuck_ ” fills the room, and Harry grins into the skin of Zayn’s thigh. 

“C’mon, Harry, come on, just—fuck— _fuck_ ” Zayn stutters, and yes, this is what Harry wanted, Zayn coming apart from him, to show him he’s more than just okay. But he also wants Zayn, wants to know what all of him feels like, wants his own release from the pain of his dick pressing against his jeans, so he slides his fingers out with a groan from Zayn, shucks off his jeans, and rolls a condom on with a speed that has Zayn giggling. 

He stops giggling when Harry eases into him—slow, because he _wants_ but he’s not impolite or anything. He pauses when Zayn tenses beneath him, but then Zayn lifts up his legs so Harry can get hands beneath his knees, and Zayn gives him a look that he can clearly read as ‘fucking move, now’, and he buries himself in Zayn, in the warm heat of him. 

And then Harry can’t think anymore, because Zayn is beautiful and golden and wrecked beneath him, and he’s moving fast and hard and Zayn’s hips are rising up to meet him, and he’s jerking off to the same rhythm Harry’s pounding into him, biting his lip like that’s the only thing that’s keeping in the sound, except then Harry shifts the angle, hits his sweet spot, and he comes with a _fuck_ and a spurt of come over his stomach. It’s that look, the spent, blissful, sweetness of his smile, that sends Harry over the edge too, collapsing on top of him without any words to spare. 

They lie there, for a minute, Zayn’s hands making circles on Harry’s back, Harry’s face buried in Zayn’s chest. That—that. That. He’s done it. He bested him. He won. He fucked him. Maybe not against a car, but still. He’s gotten what he wanted, and he was right for wanting it, because damn was that good. 

It’s also a little uncomfortable and sticky now, and it must be worse for Zayn, so Harry rolls over and off. 

“Where—”

“Bathroom,” Zayn replies, and his voice is hoarse again and low and it sends a shiver down Harry’s spine, because he did that. 

He still goes, grabs a washcloth from the bathroom and then leaps back into bed, mopping up the mess on Zayn’s stomach as best he can before throwing the washcloth into the direction of the hamper. Then he falls back down next to Zayn, who hasn’t really moved yet. 

“See?” Harry says, and pokes at Zayn’s side. He’s too far away, but, well, he doesn’t know if Zayn’s a cuddler. Probably not, he’d guess, which is a shame, because Harry most definitely is. “Aren’t you glad you agreed to that?”

“I feel so much cleaner now,” Zayn agrees in a drawl which sounds much less fucked out and much less sincere than Harry would hope, but he also wriggles closer so they’re sharing a pillow. 

“What’s the fun in clean?” Harry asks, and shifts so his head can rest on Zayn’s chest. Zayn’s hand goes almost automatically around him, and he’s warm and cuddly and Harry could fall asleep like this, maybe wake up and go another round. 

Zayn doesn’t reply, but Harry can feel his breathing, long and slow. 

Then, just as slow, Zayn’s hand moves, until he’s shoving Harry off of him. “I’ve got to get back to work,” he says. 

Harry pouts. “Why?”

“Because not all of us can be millionaire pop stars,” Zayn retorts. “You can shower or whatever, if you don’t want to drive home like this.” 

Right. Because he has to leave. Because he has to go back to London and the photoshoot and screaming fans. “Alright,” he says, slowly. “Are you—”

Zayn gets up, and grabs his clothes, pulls them on. “I always look a mess at the shop, it’ll be fine. Just lock up when you leave, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Zayn getting dressed is something that should never happen, Harry decides, watching all that lovely skin disappear beneath sweatpants and a t-shirt. He should be naked all the time. Naked and in bed next to Harry. “See you?” he says, though, as Zayn pulls open the door. 

Zayn looks over his shoulder, and he still looks fucked out, to Harry’s eyes at least; he can still see where his hands messed up his hair and the teeth marks he left and all the places he had just marked. “Yeah,” Zayn says, “Sure.” 

Then the door closes behind him, and Harry falls backwards onto the bed, still smelling of sweat and sex and _them_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I return! Thank you all for waiting so patiently. The next chapter should be up on Wednesday. 
> 
> Don't own anything, boys don't belong to me, etc, etc, etc.

Harry honestly expected that to be it. He’d won, he’d fucked Zayn at last, had seen all of him there was to see. That’s usually where he ends it, once he’s gotten what he wanted. Sometimes he comes back for seconds, sure, if they want him again too and they were a good shag the first time—sometimes they even keep hooking up, if everyone’s agreeable—but he’s never _wanted_ someone a second time like he does before that first time, like he wants the stage and the fans and the music. So he leaves Zayn’s flat expecting never to come back. To hold the memory of that hour (not even, probably) with him as a brilliant fuck with a man who’s still the hottest he’s ever seen, to have that as his new bar people have to hit to be classified as amazing in bed, and that’s all. 

Except—he goes to the photoshoot, smiles for the cameras, lets the other models put their hands over him, lets them squeeze him into leather pants and a loose tank top, and nibbles on celery and carrot sticks and flirts with the pretty intern who nearly drops her camera when he smiles at her, and thinks of Zayn. Thinks of the marks Zayn didn’t leave on his skin as they spread make-up on his face, tutting about tans and spots and pores, all the places Zayn didn’t touch. 

He thinks of all the places Zayn did touch that night, tossing and turning in his bed with silk sheets, in his huge flat that seems empty compared to the clutter of Zayn’s, how his flat was filled to the brim with books and art he didn’t choose because it was what a pop star chose, but because he liked them. Thinks of Zayn’s face as he came apart, those eyelashes fluttering, his mouth closed over Harry’s name. 

After a few hours of very determinedly not sleeping, and dreading the talking-to he’s going to get tomorrow from the make-up people at the interview tomorrow, who will talk over him like he’s not there about ‘all these pop stars and their unhealthy lifestyles’ and ‘of course he doesn’t take care of himself’, he gives up and wraps his hand around his cock, closes his eyes and remembers that face, remembers the way Zayn’s lips had felt on his, how his fingers had pulled at Harry’s hair, how his hips had ground against Harry’s. He comes harder than he has since—well, since that morning, so not that long, really—and finally, finally gets to sleep. 

He doesn’t think about Zayn the next day. Or, no, that’s a blatant lie, he knows. But he tries not to think about him, because he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t want him like he does, like he can’t not, like that smile he gave Harry after he came is Harry’s new life goal (after the one he gave his sister) like Harry is his everything. He goes out with Grimmy, tries to wash away the taste of Zayn in a pretty B list tv actress with dark eyes and dark hair and porcelain skin, but for all they get papped outside the club, for all she leaves his apartment very satisfied, it doesn’t help. Doesn’t help because she had kissed nicely but Harry hadn’t lit on fire, and because Harry had wanted her but he hadn’t _wanted_ her. 

It’s distracting Harry from his work, because he’s spending half the time he was being interviewed wondering if Zayn was watching, if Zayn was watching him on the telly and thinking about his fingers, how he had taken him apart like he promised, if he was rubbing at the bruises Harry hopes he left. If he saw Harry smile, saw him laugh fakely at the interviewer’s bad innuendos, saw him flirt with the interviewer, and wished it was him. Because Harry does. Even if he’s never flirted as badly as he did with Zayn. And he can’t have anything distracting him, Liam will yell at him. 

And more importantly, Harry still wants Zayn. Still wants to taste all the parts of him he missed the first time. Wants to take his time with him, bring him to the edge again and again and again until he’s fucking screaming Harry’s name, so Harry can see what he looks like really fucked out, sprawled across his blankets like he couldn’t move, too sated to kick Harry out of bed or leave it himself. Wants to see if he can convince Zayn to touch him next time, to draw lines of fire over Harry’s skin with those calloused, strong fingers that are still so much smaller than Harry’s. 

So he goes back. He tries to time it so he’ll get there at 5, which he guesses is when things close, so then he can take Zayn home and have all night and the morning too, because it’s the weekend and Harry doesn’t have anything tomorrow at all, so maybe he can spend all day in bed with Zayn. He thinks it’s a pretty clever plan. Louis would be proud. 

He’s halfway through getting out of his car, though, when he sees Zayn’s motorcycle isn’t in the lot. He could have taken some other sort of car over here, or even walked, really, given how near his flat is. But Harry also can’t just go in and hope, because if someone else is in there and recognizes him, how’s he supposed to explain himself? He doesn’t want to have to explain himself here. He just wants to find Zayn. 

So he takes a chance and leaves the lot again, retraces his steps to Zayn’s flat. His motorcycle is outside. Harry grins at it. Partly because he feels a little like a detective, figuring out where Zayn is from his clues, like Zayn’s the treasure at the end of the treasure hunt. Partly because he likes that bike (and he might still have fantasies of it, of bending Zayn over it. Or really, the other way too, of Zayn tying his wrists to the handlebars, of Harry bare before him, helpless as Zayn drags his fingers over him in the best kind of slow torture and Harry would moan and squirm, the leather of the seat rough and cold against his ass, even though Zayn might slap him for it, a little, just enough to sting). But mostly because that means Zayn’s inside. 

He tugs on a beanie and pops the collar of his coat, checks both ways for paparazzi, then gets out of the car and lopes over to the door. He pushes the buzzer for the second floor, and there’s a moment of panic where he thinks what if Zayn isn’t there, because he couldn’t find him otherwise, he’d have to wait here and then someone might catch him—but then the static starts and there’s Zayn’s voice, saying, “zzit?”

Harry grins at himself. “Pizza delivery!” he says, trying to sound as not-him as possible. 

He doesn’t actually expect Zayn to believe him, because PR gave him very strict instructions about not opening the door to anyone he doesn’t expressly expect, which according to Louis is not actually something normal people need instructions about, but there’s a pause, then Zayn asks, “Is there actually pizza this time?”

Which is a very odd thing to say. Wouldn’t a pizza delivery man have pizza? But Harry just answers, “Yep!” even though he doesn’t—maybe he should have gotten food, but it would just have gone cold while they had sex anyway. 

“Then yeah, come on.” 

The buzzer sounds, and Harry pushes open the door, and scampers up the stairs. He takes a second outside Zayn’s door to shake out his hair, settle his jacket, make it look like he didn’t just run up here and hasn’t been sitting in a car for two hours because he needed to see Zayn, then knocks. 

Nothing happens. Harry narrows his eyes at the door. That doesn’t make sense, he just buzzed Harry in, he knows Harry’s coming. Or someone is. 

So he tries knocking again. This time there are footsteps from the other side, and he has time to arrange himself becomingly in front of the door before Zayn’s pulled it open, with a “I swear, Niall, I am not going out tonight unless there really is—” he pauses. His eyes widen, and his lips, which had been curving into one of those smiles, the bright one he gave his sister, the one he occasionally has in the photos but that he’s never given Harry, fades. “You.” 

“Me,” Harry agrees, and gives his most seductive smirk. 

“You’re here.”

“Yep!’

“Again.”

“Yep!” 

“Even though we already fucked.”

“Yep.” Harry can’t resist bouncing up on the balls of his feet. Zayn just looks so good, as good as he remembered, a red Henley on that makes his skin look even more gold and Harry’s mouth water. “Can I please come in?”

“You’re here,” Zayn repeats, sounding more incredulous than either pleased or displeased, but he also steps aside so Harry can come in, so he takes that as a win. The apartment looks the same too. Not that it would have changed in two days, but it is the same. Which is good, because sometimes people who sleep with Harry try to sell things he touched on ebay and then security has to track them down and it’s unpleasant for everyone involved. But the copy of Hunger Games is still on the floor where Harry threw it, and he thinks he sees the sheets in the laundry basket, and he didn’t touch anything else, so he seems to be in the clear. Actually, really, _nothing’s_ changed. Does Zayn even clean? 

“Who’s Niall?” he demands, spinning around in the center of the room, because even if that’s not what he came here to say—or, more importantly, to do—it’s important. What if he got a boyfriend in the day Harry’s been gone? What if that boyfriend is better in bed than Harry? That wouldn’t be fair, because he’d probably gotten a lot of chances, and Harry’s only had the one—well, the two—and it was just one fuck and he’d been in a hurry and he knew Zayn had liked it and he could do even better, really, he knew he could, he had fucking practice—ha, literally—

“He’s a mate,” Zayn replies, drawing out the word slowly. He closes the door behind him and leans against it again. His eyes narrow at Harry. “Are you jealous?”

“No!” It comes out more as a yelp than anything, but Harry’s mind is busy with the relief of ‘mate’ and the stress of ‘this time’ that his brain adds. It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t be here. 

But he is, and it does, and he does. 

So, “No,” Harry repeats, and dodges a spray can on the floor to step closer to Zayn. “Do you have plans tonight?”

“Was gonna go to the pub with my mates.” Zayn’s watching him with even eyes, and his teeth bite down on his lower lip, and Harry swears this person was put on earth just to torture him. “What do you want, Styles?”

“Cancel.” Harry takes another step towards Zayn. 

“Why are you here?”

Harry’s close enough to touch, now, but instead he puts a hand on either side of Zayn’s head, caging him in so he can lean down and whisper in Zayn’s ear, and he’s close enough to feel Zayn shiver when he does, making his voice go low and raspy and sexy. “Cancel.”

“Why—” Harry’s tongue flicks out, traces his ear, and Zayn jerks. “Yeah, fuck, yeah.” 

“Good.” Harry gives his ear one more lick, just for good measure, to see him tremble—god, he wants to see Zayn tremble—then, keeping his body close enough that Zayn’s caught, he slides one hand down Zayn’s side, slips it between them. Zayn’s eyes dart up, dark beneath those eyelashes, and Harry very nearly does just go for his dick—but instead he slides his hand into Zayn’s pocket, and bingo. He pulls the phone out slowly, lets his fingers linger on Zayn’s thigh, then presses the phone into Zayn’s hand. “Cancel,” he says again. 

Zayn manages a smirk, but he’s also already half-hard, and, yes. Harry would like to see some boy make a move on him at the pub now. “Have to see what I’m texting.” 

Harry can’t see a way around that, because he believes in grammatical texts, so he grinds his hips against Zayn’s once, just to keep him remembering, and steps back. 

Zayn tilts his head down almost automatically, his fingers moving over the keypad. His tongue is tucked between his teeth, pink and tempting, and how is Harry supposed to resist this? How was he ever supposed to not come back to this, to someone who is so damn pretty and can resist him so well and not at all? 

Harry takes the opportunity to take off his shirt. He still doesn’t want to scare Zayn, so he keeps his jeans on. Zayn looks up as he’s sliding off his belt. 

“Eager, are we?” Zayn asks, and slides the phone back into his pocket. Harry doesn’t bother to deny it, because he is, because Zayn is there and not moving away. 

So he just gives him his cutest, most charming look. “Do you have plans tonight?” he repeats. 

Zayn rolls his eyes. “As I told Niall, I have to have sex with an international pop star.”

That takes Harry a little aback. “You didn’t, did you? Because I—I mean, the more people who know—”

Zayn rolls his eyes again, and reaches down to yank his own shirt off. “No, obviously. You think I want it made public you’re here?” he drops his shirt on the floor, so he’s just in tight jeans and nothing else, and Harry has a sudden image of him working on a car under the summer sun like this, sun glinting off the sweat-lined skin, muscles straining as he did car things, hair slicked back with oil and grease and Harry’s hands, because of course he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of him in that summer light, would have to shove him against the car and touch, and taste, and slide his fingers under the waistline of those jeans to see if he was as tan all the way down—

His very nice fantasy is interrupted when Zayn keeps talking. “Why are you here, actually?”

Harry blinks. “To have sex with you.”

“Again.”

Harry glances down at himself, at his half-hard dick. “Yeah?” 

He can almost see the thoughts going through Zayn’s mind, but he doesn’t know what they are, because Zayn just keeps looking gorgeous and it’s distracting. 

Then Zayn shrugs, and Harry’s mouth goes dry at the sight of it, somehow, of the muscles working under the smooth skin, of the ink surging and shifting. “Okay,” he says, and there’s that word again. 

“Okay,” Harry snorts, and once again, he takes it as a challenge. He’ll be better than any boy in a pub. He’ll make it so Zayn will never think about boys in pubs again. He’ll make it so Zayn will never think about anyone other than him ever again, because maybe then it’ll be even. “I’ll show you okay.” 

\---

Later—after Harry took his time, paying attention to every line of muscle on Zayn’s body, every place where the black ink contrasted against his skin—they lie together on Zayn’s bed, Harry curled onto his side so he can see Zayn better, see how he stares at the ceiling, his hands folded behind his head. It’s quiet—Harry sometimes forgets how quiet it can be outside of London, or even in some parts of London, where there aren’t people coming and going at all times. It’s quiet enough that he can hear himself think, and he’s not always a fan of that, is more of a doer than a thinker, but it suits Zayn, Harry thinks, the quiet. The peace. 

Still, it’s Zayn who speaks first. “You mind if I?” he asks, trailing off, but he moves his arms to gesture at the pack of cigarettes on table, so it’s pretty clear.

Harry shakes his head. He’s had to get used to smokers, even if he still thinks it’s kind of a nasty habit. But he also likes the way the traces of it tastes on Zayn, smoky like good whiskey, or at least the stuff Nick claims is good but still is a bit too much for Harry. And he’s pretty sure he’ll like the way it looks on Zayn, too.

“You want?” Harry shakes his head again.

“Asthma,” he explains, and Zayn laughs as he pulls a cigarette from the pack.

“Really? You?”

“Nearly got me eliminated from X Factor,” Harry admits. Zayn chuckles again as he lights up the cigarette and leans back against the headboard, taking a long, slow drag that hollows out his cheeks and makes his eyes go half-lidded and sensual. Shit, but Harry was right, he likes how this looks. He hadn’t thought he could get any hotter, and then there he went, getting hotter.

The silence falls again, and it’s weirdly comfortable, even if Harry doesn’t usually like silences—or maybe because he’s not around them much, because Louis is loud above all else, and he’s utterly corrupted Liam, and Nick likes to pretend he’s quiet and snarky but he’s out every night, and the rest of Harry’s life is screaming fans and paparazzi. He’s not sure what to do with this silence, with the way Zayn seems content to just sit there and smoke and blow the smoke out in a way that makes Harry’s dick twitch in interest.

Eventually, Harry can’t stand it anymore. He scoots up so he’s sitting against the headboard as well, their shoulders brushing, and asks, “So what did you give up tonight?” trying for a cheeky grin that translates into ‘aren’t you glad you did?’

Zayn just shrugs. “Just meeting my mates. Nothing we don’t do all the time. Don’t worry, it wasn’t that big a sacrifice.”

“I’m hurt!”

“You aren’t that good, Styles.” Harry wrinkles his nose at him, because yes, thank you very much, he is that good, and Zayn knows it. But then Zayn blows out another stream of smoke, and goes on, “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Where would you be tonight if you hadn’t been stalking me?”

Harry purses his lips to think. He hadn’t had any real plans, but, “Probably at a club, I guess? There’s this one Louis—Louis Tomlinson, dunno if you’ve heard of him—”

Zayn’s lips twitch. “Now his music I like.”

“Hey!” Harry crosses his arms and gives his most charming pout. Zayn just raises an eyebrow, and waits.

Harry’s not so good at the waiting game, and people usually give into the pout pretty quickly unless they’re his mum, so he keeps going rather than keep it up. “Well, he was probably going to get me there, ‘s not really my scene, but it’s good enough—”

“What’s it called?”

Harry tilts his head in confusion. Why would that matter, unless Zayn’s going to look it up online or something? “Opalescence.”

That gets a nod. “Oh, yeah, that place is cool.”

Harry’s jaw drops. “You’ve been?”

“I have actually left this town,” Zayn drawls. “I went to uni in London.” 

That—Harry doesn’t know what to think about that, because he doesn’t know what to think about Zayn anywhere but in this town, in that shop or this apartment. But it explains more than it doesn’t, the drag of his voice around big words that Harry’s pretty sure Liam wouldn’t even understand, the way he filled up this apartment like it’s not enough for him.

“And you went to Opalescence?” he asks, because that’s the only thing he can think to ask.

“Yeah. I don’t dance, really, but I’ve a mate who does, so we went sometimes.”

“And you got in?” It’s—Opalescence isn’t the sort of club you just go to. There’s almost always a line around the block, half of which is just people hoping that Louis or someone will be there that night, never expecting to actually be allowed in.

Zayn raises his eyebrows at him again,Harry thinks for a second, and then ducks his head, because oh. Of course. Of course Zayn gets into clubs. He’s too pretty for lines. He’s the sort of person clubs beg to come, the sort of person bouncers wave right through with barely a second look, because everyone wants people who look like Zayn in clubs. Harry gets that too, of course, now, but—he’s always been pretty sure that if he wasn’t, well, him, if PR hadn’t somehow managed to spin his awkwardness into sexiness and his fumbling into charm, he wouldn’t get into Opalescence. He’s attractive, but not that attractive. It’s always been more about his way with people, how he can get most anyone to like him. 

“Right. So.” Harry swallows, tries to smile. “Uni? For what?”

“Was gonna be an English teacher.” Zayn stubs out the cigarette into an ash tray and shoves it away. “But that didn’t happen.”

“Ohhhhhh.” 

“What?”

“What what?”

“What what what?”

It’s so unexpectedly goofy that Harry cracks, grinning hard enough that his dimples almost hurt. “That just explains the books, is all.”

“What, a mechanic can’t read?” The goofiness, the softness, is gone all at once, and Zayn’s face is frozen again. It hurts, almost. Hurts because Harry was so close to getting Zayn to really smile at him, to laugh with him, or at him, he doesn’t really care he just wants that laugh.

“Not many people want to read Dostoyevsky,” Harry tries, a little tentatively. “I mean, most of my mates probably don’t even know who he is. I’ve got one, he’s my manager, sort of? I don’t really know, he tells me where to go and makes sure I behave but he also gets me drunk a lot and hangs out with us and helps me pull pranks, so I’m not sure what he is. But anyway, Liam—his name is Liam—once he was talking with Grimmy—Nick Grimshaw, he’s got a radio show, but you said you knew that, didn’t you—anyway, Nick mentioned Kafka, and Liam was like,” Harry giggles here, because it was hysterical even if Liam was embarrassed for days, “Bless you! Because he thought it was a sneeze, not a name, see?” He grins at Zayn.

Zayn’s just staring at him, but it’s not bad staring, it’s got a little fond in it too, and he’s shaking his head with the Harry look everyone gets when he starts rambling. “You are shit at telling stories, aren’t you?” Zayn asks, and Harry nods.

“Yep. I’m not allowed to on air anymore. Management made a rule. You can make a rule too, that’s what Louis did.”

Zayn’s fingers twitch, like he’s thinking about bringing them closer to Harry. Harry approves of this idea, so he reaches out and grabs his hand, laces their fingers together and rests them on his thigh. “Nah,” Zayn says slowly, looking down at their hands. “Nah, it’s okay. It’s kind of cute.”

“Just kind of?” Harry asks, and leans over to kiss the snort off of Zayn’s lips.

\---

They order in for food, Harry biting little nipping kisses into Zayn’s neck as he growls out the order for the take out into the phone. He’s close enough that he can hear the voice on the other end, the “That’s more than you usually order, Zayn, you feeling all right?”

Harry grins, and leans forward so Zayn has to fall backwards or get run over, crawls on top of him so he’s pinning Zayn to the bed with his body. “Yeah, no,” Zayn mutters into the phone, “Just got a mate over, is all.” Harry takes that as his cue to rolls his hips over Zayn’s groin, so their dicks rub against each other and Zayn’s voice goes hoarse as he spits, “Shit, Harry, don’t—”

“Right,” the voice on the other end drawls, “A mate. That’ll be half an hour, so don’t get up to any funny business,” and hangs up. 

Zayn glares at the phone for a second, which is sad because he glares very nicely, basically a smolder, and Harry would like it directed at him, please. But then he drops the phone onto the bed and turns his head so he’s looking up at Harry. As he doesn’t seem to be going for a kiss, right now, Harry adjusts himself so he can hold himself over Zayn’s head for a little while. “There’s something you don’t get in London,” he says, a little wryly and a little irritatedly. 

“What?”

“People butting into your every move.” 

Harry presses his lips together, and tries to figure out a nice way to contradict him, but he ends up not having to because Zayn does a little squirmy thing Harry thinks was meant to be a shrug but really just ended up brushing their skin all up against each other in a way he really approves of. “Okay, fine, something I didn’t get in London.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Don’t believe it.” Harry shakes his head so that his hair flips into his face. Which reminds him, this is quite uncomfortable, really, so he drops down just to the side of Zayn, rolls onto his side so he can look at him still. “Everyone must have been oh, Zayn, where’re you going, oh, Zayn what’re you doing, oh Zayn, please look at me—no, really, it would’ve been oh, Zayn, let me look at you, please!” he flutters his eyelashes. 

“I think you’re mistaking our lives, popstar,” Zayn retorts, and shoves at him. Harry goes, flopping onto his back, because that—that was a playful shove and a pet name, even if it had a lot of scorn in it, and he thinks Zayn’s laughing on the inside, and a little bit on the outside. 

“You mean there aren’t cameras following you around everywhere?” Harry asks, in his best innocent voice, with the big-eyed, charming look that gets interviewers eating out of his hand. 

Zayn just chuckles and bumps their shoulders together. “I mean you’re full of shit, aren’t you?”

“Yep. ’s why people love me.”

“Really, that’s why?” Zayn drawls, and reaches out to tug on one of Harry’s curls.

“Might be other reasons, too,” Harry admits, and rolls over Zayn to illustrate just why, he, at least, should love Harry.

They eat on the bed, still naked (mainly because Harry yanks off the sweats Zayn’d pulled on to answer the door the instant the door shuts behind him, because Zayn being clothed is his least favorite thing), and Harry manages to get at least halfway through the sandwich Zayn’d ordered him before he gives in to the urge to replace the sandwich with his mouth.

By the time that round—Harry’s made the decision not to keep count, because he doesn’t want to think he’ll need to—is done, it’s about the time that Harry would usually be heading out to a club or something. But here, in Zayn’s bed, he’s just sleepy, willing to curl up against Zayn and try to quietly hint that Zayn’s hand should stay in his hair, which Zayn gets after the second or third time Harry nudges at his hand with his head (Louis claims he’s half cat, and Harry has found no reason to disagree).

“It’s a pretty long drive back to London,” Zayn says, apropos of nothing Harry can see, given that they weren’t saying anything before, just sort of existing in quiet, listening to each other breathe.

“Not that bad,” Harry disagrees sleepily. “I don’t mind.” He’ll do it a thousand times if Zayn keeps doing that thing with his fingers.

“And it’s late,” Zayn goes on, still in an even tone that gives nothing away. It’s the same tone he used when Harry first saw him, when he was trying to stay professional. Harry hates that tone, almost as much as Zayn not being naked.

 “Not that late,” he protests. Then he realizes—and something twists in him, something that hurts like that time he was almost certain he was going to be eliminated from the X Factor, like his first interview where he said something that he knows now was silly and too _him_ and everyone had laughed. But he tries to play it off, to laugh like he doesn’t really care, like it doesn’t actually matter, like it’s just a silly throwaway thought, like it’s so ridiculous and ludicrous because no one kicks Harry Styles out of bed, he’s the one who kicks people out of bed, even if he doesn’t usually, usually at least makes them breakfast before not calling them back, not that they usually expect a call back. “Why, you kicking me out?”

“Didn’t know your plans. If you needed to be back, or wanted to be, or…”

It sounds enough like a no, I’m not kicking you out that Harry tilts his head enough to look at Zayn, though not enough to dislodge his hand, and grin at him. “No plans. I’ve got the whole morning off, just for you.”

“Busy life of a pop star?” Zayn isn’t quite laughing like Harry’d like, doesn’t sound quite as pleased with it, but he’s got a bit of a smile on and he doesn’t have that tone or anything, so Harry doesn’t bother answering, just lets his eyes close and falls asleep to the steady motion of Zayn’s fingers running through his hair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad everyone is still enjoying this! The next chapter will probably be up Friday-Saturday, depending on my life.

He wakes up to the morning light streaming through the windows. They’d shifted, in the night, so that they’re spooning, Zayn’s arm thrown over Harry’s waist, his breath warm and steady against Harry’s collarbone. Their feet are tangled together, one of Zayn’s knees is kind of jabbing against Harry’s thigh, and he’s actually pretty bony—but Harry still wakes up smiling, closing his eyes and savoring Zayn’s warmth against his back. He’s clearly a secret cuddler, because he’s the one holding on for once, not Harry, which is good. Harry needs a cuddler, because he tends to fade if he can’t touch people.

It’s just so comfy, here. Not that Harry’s bed isn’t comfortable, because it is, he made sure it would be, but he likes being wrapped up in Zayn, being able to smell him on every inhale and feel his chest move on the exhale.

Zayn’s clearly still asleep, still with the heavy, slow breathing of deep sleep. Harry considers waking him up with a blow job, but once he wriggles so he can turn around to see his face, all desire (or, well, most of the desire) leaves. Zayn asleep is possibly prettier than Zayn awake, all flushed cheeks and dark eyelashes over his cheekbones and a lock of hair falling over his skin. He looks like some sort of painting, some Greek hero asleep in a meadow or something, worn out from his labors, and Harry doesn’t want to make that disappear. Doesn’t want Zayn to wake up and look harder again, like he looks at Harry, like there’s something in him he’s guarding.

So instead he takes one more look at Zayn—draws a feather-light finger over his cheekbones, because he can—and slides out from under Zayn’s hand. He pulls on the sweatpants Zayn had been wearing last night, because they were the first thing Harry had found, even though they’re too short on him and a little too tight around the hips, and heads over to the kitchen on tip toes.

He needn’t have bothered with the tiptoeing, apparently. Zayn sleeps through his yelped, ‘fuck!’ when he burns his finger, the clang when he dropped a pan too hard into the sink, and his muttering at the state of the kitchen. But when Harry is just turning to turn off the coffee machine, he feels hands come around his hips and a sharp chin hooking over his shoulder and what has to be almost all of Zayn’s weight on his back.

Harry waits a second, to see if Zayn’s going to say anything. When he doesn’t, though, Harry grins and chirps, “Hey, you’re awake!”

“Coffee?” it comes out more of a mumble than anything, a sound Harry feels against his shoulder. Harry turns his head to look; Zayn’s eyes are still closed, and he looks, for all intents and purposes, still asleep.

“Right here, babe. Do you take anything in it? There’s no milk or sugar, so I didn’t think so, but if you do…”

Zayn doesn’t open his eyes. “Coffee?” he repeats, a little more plaintive.

Zayn can’t see him, so Harry laughs a little to himself as he shuffles over to grab a mug. Zayn moves with him, so there’s never more than a few centimeters between them, like he couldn’t stand up on his own. He likes it. Likes the feel of Zayn so close, obviously, but also this sleepy Zayn, who cuddles Harry and doesn’t seem to be trying to pretend not to like him and lets Harry make him coffee instead of snapping when Harry had tried to pay for dinner last night.

“Here you go, babe.” Harry detaches Zayn’s hands from his hips, and moves them so they’re clasped around the mug. He’d had a brief fantasy of actually feeding it to Zayn, but he doesn’t trust himself not to spill hot coffee all over both of them doing that.

Without moving away from Harry, Zayn brings the mug up to his lips and takes a long sip, then another. It’s almost funny, watching him wake up, watching him slowly remember not to be so soft, feeling him pull away from Harry, even if he doesn’t really move, except now he’s not leaning on Harry anymore. It’s almost funny, except it’s not, except Harry doesn’t like it at all.

“Thanks,” Zayn says, enunciating each word even though his voice is still rough with sleep in a way that sends a shiver through Harry. Then he blinks, and glances at the kitchen. “Have you been cooking?”

“Yeah! I made you breakfast.” Harry gestures grandly to the plates sitting on the counter. “I was going to do pancakes, but then you didn’t have milk, or anything really, so then I was going to do a fry up, but you don’t have anything for that either, so we’re having eggs, I guess. And I figured everyone liked scrambled eggs, so they’re scrambled. Unless you want something else, I can make something else too, eggs are really easy.”

“You made me breakfast,” Zayn repeats, and takes another gulp of coffee.

“Uhuh. You were asleep, and…” he trails off, because Zayn’s just standing there blinking, which is both unfair because he looks like he should be in one of Liam’s animes, and because Harry has no idea what it means. “Was that okay? You could have been saving the food for something, I guess, or do you not like other people messing around in your kitchen?” he should have thought of that, given how mad he gets whenever anyone else uses his kitchen. But that’s just because the only people who would are Louis and Nick, because Liam’s too well-mannered, and either of them would probably try to put Harry’s knives in the dishwasher and wash a cast iron pot and probably explode something as well. “I’m sorry, I promise I didn’t mess anything up, I take good care—”

Zayn blinks again, then seems to come out of his daze. “No, it’s fine, you cooking and everything. Niall’s the only one who uses it, anyway.” Niall. Who is just a mate. “Just—I didn’t expect breakfast.”

Harry’s not entirely sure what that means, if it means he didn’t think Harry would be there for breakfast or he never eats breakfast, or he thinks breakfast is more of a third date sort of meal, or he only eats dinner foods for breakfast, which would actually make a lot of sense given what he had in his fridge.

“I like to cook,” Harry says at last, slowly, because something about the way Zayn said it sounded defensive, or apologetic.

“I know.” At Harry’s surprised laugh, Zayn rolls his eyes. “Don’t think you quite get how obsessed my sister is. That time you said your favorite vegetables to cook were peas, that was all she would eat for two weeks.”

Harry grins at that, tilts his head so he can whisper in Zayn’s ear, “Want to know a secret?”

“Sure. But you don’t have to whisper, we’re alone.”

“I like whispering to you,” Harry counters. “I only said that so Louis’s sisters would eat their peas.”

And then—Zayn laughs, tilts his head back and really laughs, like he did in the photos, and Harry slips away from him so he can really see it, the crinkled eyes and the way his whole body shakes with it. It turns him from the oil painting into, well, Harry doesn’t know what because he’s never really been good at art but something bright and glowing and mobile, which is silly because obviously Zayn’s mobile, but it turns him from a statue in something entirely less intimidating and still completely beautiful.

It lights something up in Harry, that laugh. He’s made hundreds, thousands of people laugh before; on TV and on stages and even in person. His job is basically getting people to smile, which usually means getting them to laugh. But Zayn’s laugh hits some note in him, some perfect note that resonates and echoes and spreads throughout all of Harry’s body, makes him giggle back but it’s not just that, it’s like he’s gotten onto the same frequency as Zayn, like he’s tuned to him and this laugh and him.

So Harry does what he has to, and leans forward to kiss the laughter out of his mouth, to swallow it down with the coffee taste, to see if he can keep a bit of that laughter for himself.

\---

Harry drives home with the smell of Zayn still wrapped around him. Well, not literally, because he knows that literally his clothes were only on Zayn’s floor for a few hours—23 hours, to be precise, which isn’t usually one of Harry’s priorities, except now—but he can imagine he can smell Zayn on his clothes, can feel his hands on Harry’s hips, his skin warm against Harry’s, can see the way he smiled a little when Harry had said, as he was leaving, that he couldn’t get away for the next few days, he thought, but he’d be back by Tuesday. Not the smile that stopped Harry’s breath, or the one he had right after sex, something smaller, a little more secret, with a lot of pockets Harry can’t quite read. But definitely happy, so. Harry wins. Because he’ll be going back.

He gets home at five, and has a few hours to (unwillingly) take a shower and a quick nap before he goes out with Nick. Harry likes parties—likes how Nick knows the coolest people, how everyone wants to dance with him, how girls flutter their eyelashes and boys puff out their chests. Likes how people smile a little brighter and laugh louder and never pretend not to want things they don’t want. Likes how people never notice if he trips over his words or his feet because they blame the alcohol. So he’s perfectly willing to down a few shots as Nick goes off with Finchy on an expedition that Harry didn’t quite understand through their slurring and get into an idle argument-cum flirting with the sexy bartender with the blonde hair and ripped off sleeves over Louis’s music.

“Bothering more innocents, Styles?” a voice asks next to him, and Harry stops making his very clever point about hedgehog faces to smirk at the woman who’s leaning on the bar beside him.

“It’s my calling,” he agrees with a wink. “Didn’t know you’d here tonight!”

Jenn O’Hara chuckles, low and sensuous, and motions to the bartender to get her a drink. “You know me, I go where the party is.”

It’s pretty much true—she’s an actress, ostensibly, but more a celebutante than anything else, and so she probably spends as much time at parties as anyone else Harry knows. It’s a little annoying, or maybe a little too much, the way she’s always at one every night, like she doesn’t have anything else to do, but Harry likes her anyway. Enough that their PR leaked ‘relationship’ had included a lot of sex. And still did, on occasion, probably including tonight if she has anything to do with it. 

“You bring the party with you,” he counters, and refrains from making a ‘party in my pants’ joke. It makes her smile like he knew it would. She accepts the drink from the bartender with a lingering glance, then turns her sultry dark eyes back onto Harry. 

“What about you, Styles? Been anywhere fun recently?”

Harry thinks, for an instant, of that messy little room crowded with books and art, and Zayn lying asleep on the bed. “Nowhere as fun as here with you,” he replies, and its not quite a lie because what it was with Zayn wasn’t fun, exactly. Or it was, but that’s not the word he would use for it, so it didn’t count. It’s not the word she would use for it, definitely.

“Oh, Styles. Flattery will get you everywhere.” She moves a little closer, and lets a hand drift down his arm. Her nails are a bright, bright blue to match her dress, and the dress is doing everything it should for her. And he’s thinking of a garage where flattery got him nowhere, where a boy in sweats and messy hair was just as hot as her. It’s not fair to her, and it’s not fair to him, so he gives her a little shake of his head and gently moves his hand away. 

“Your too much woman for me tonight, babe,” he laughs, but he’s suddenly tired. “Think I’m going to head home and all. Interviews tomorrow.” 

She gives a resigned shrug, but joins in his laughter. “I’m too much woman for you every night, babe,” she echoes back. “Getting old?”

“Getting ready for my launch,” he counters, and turns his yawn—he and Zayn hadn’t gotten much sleep—into a bored sigh. “Gotta get my beauty sleep.” He winks again, and she slaps him playfully on the arm as she follows him towards the door. 

“How is the launch going?”

“The party’s going to be in a few weeks, so…”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t want to miss whatever you’ve come up with this time.”

Harry stops, and smiles at her because he does like her. He leans down to whisper in her ear, brushing a piece of hair out of the way. “I hear there’s going to be fountains of champagne,” he says, in his raspiest voice, and she’s just starting to smirk at that when the flash goes off and Harry’s head jerks up to see the cameraman standing just outside the club. 

He just blinks; she rolls her eyes. “Hello, love!” she blows a kiss. Harry makes a deep bow, gives rock horns. 

“Look out for my newest album, dropping in one month today!” he calls out, and the paparazzo retreats. 

“I’m going back in,” Jenn continues, as if the photographer hadn’t been there, which is really the only way to deal with them. “See you around, Styles.”

He picks up her hand, kisses the back of it. She can’t hold back her giggle. “Later, babe,” he says into her skin, then drops it and leaves. Maybe, if he puts on the t-shirt he was wearing, it’ll still smell like Zayn. 

\---

Harry spends a good part of the drive down on Tuesday trying to decide where to go. It’s early, still, not even three, so maybe Zayn’s at work, but what does he know? Maybe he’s off on Tuesdays. Maybe he took today off so he could spend as much of it in bed with Harry as possible. Harry would definitely approve of that. He should suggest it. He should buy the garage so Zayn won’t have to work and can spend all day in bed with him all the time. Except for when Harry has to go out and do publicity stuff, he guesses Zayn can get out of bed then. As long as he’s back in it when Harry comes home. Or not the bed, Harry’s not picky. The kitchen counter would do well, he thinks. Maybe against a bookshelf. On the bike. In Harry’s car. Against Harry’s car. On the desk in the garage. Basically, everywhere.

The fantasies distract him long enough so that he drives to the garage on instinct more than anything else. Or maybe it isn’t luck, he thinks as he sees Zayn’s bike is one of two vehicles in the lot. Maybe he just has some sort of magnet in him that always makes him go towards Zayn. Maybe that’s what happened the first time, before he knew what he was doing, when he ended up here.

He debates for another second whether he should wait for the other car to leave, but it’s the kind of minivan that goes with kids too little for his fans, and maybe the kids will be inside! And most importantly, Zayn is inside, and Harry hasn’t touched him for three days, and he knows he’s only known Zayn for a few weeks but those three days already seem like way too long, even if he wanked off to the thought of him every night, and sometimes during the day.

So he pulls on a beanie, stuffs his hair into it so the curls aren’t so obvious, and bounces up to the door.

There aren’t any kids inside. There is a woman who probably would be the hypothetical kid’s mom, maybe five years older than Harry, standing in front of the desk, talking to Zayn. From the tilt of her head, the way her hand is running through her blonde hair, Harry’s pretty sure she’s flirting. And that’s—well, he understands it, because he started flirting with Zayn pretty much the instant he saw Zayn’s face, that’s okay. But he’s not sure if it is, because she’s blocking Zayn’s face so he can’t see if he’s smiling and he doesn’t know if that would matter, if girls are a possibility for Zayn. But if Zayn is smiling at her like he doesn’t at Harry, like Harry can’t convince him to, he might cry. Or throw a tantrum.

The door jingles a little as it closes, and the woman glances back, which lets Harry see Zayn’s face. He’s not smiling, which is good. Or he is, a little, his lips quirked in a crooked, wry sort of smile, but he’s given Harry that sort of look before so it’s okay. And when he looks at Harry his eyebrows go up a little but Harry thinks he also smiles a little more, which is even better.

The woman also smiles, but it’s a little more strained—probably mad at Harry for interrupting something. Which he wasn’t. Because there was no something. Even if she wanted there to be.

“Heya!” Harry says, trying to pitch his voice a little higher than usual so she won’t recognize it. “How ya doing, babe?” He does his best saunter across the room, and does his best not to glare at the woman as he draws even with her, across the desk. He could go across, but he doesn’t—that’s a line he hasn’t crossed yet, and it feels very liney, and anyway he doesn’t think he could do it suavely because he doesn’t do well with sauntering in non-straight lines.

Zayn makes a motion with his eyes that is either rolling them or possibly a ‘Hello! I am so very very very excited to see you!’ But all he says is, “Hey,” before turning to the woman. “So your car’ll be ready in a few days. We’ll give you a call.”

“Looking forward to it,” she as good as purrs, and Harry narrows his eyes at her. Didn’t she hear him call Zayn babe? That’s as good as calling dibs. It’s just manners to stop flirting once dibs have been called. Harry conveniently ignores the number of times he has flirted with everyone, married or otherwise. That’s part of his charm and his image. It’s neither of hers.

Zayn nods, a little awkwardly, Harry thinks—hopes—and the woman leaves. She gives her hips a little sway, which Harry thinks is unnecessary.

Once she’s gone, _finally_ , Harry pulls off the beanie and grins at Zayn over the desk. Zayn does roll his eyes this time. “You look ridiculous in a beanie,” he informs him, which Harry’s pretty sure is true no matter how much he likes them, so he just shrugs.

“Should see me in a snapback,” he answers, and leans over to kiss Zayn hello. It’s a light and easy kiss, Zayn’s lips soft beneath his, which is good until it’s not. So Harry pulls back, says, “Don’t move,” and darts around the desk to kiss him properly, his hands on Zayn’s hips until Zayn’s hands go into Harry’s hair and his teeth dig into Harry’s teeth and he’s making a growling, groaning sound into Harry’s mouth.

When he pulls back this time, Zayn’s eyes are dark and his hands stay on Harry’s shoulders. “Better?” he asks, and his voice is hoarse.

“Loads.” It is. Better because he’s touching Zayn, because he’s very sneakily sliding his fingers beneath Zayn’s flannel shirt to feel the smooth skin there, and because Zayn’s hands are calloused as they rub against his neck, and because he’s hearing Zayn’s voice again.

Then, because he can’t not ask, “Were you flirting with her?”

“Who?”

Harry smirks a little, to himself. He’s the _best_. “That woman, who was in here before.”

Zayn’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Figuring out what gender the third person in our threesome could be,” Harry answers easily, which is part of it, he guesses. Not the threesome—although, yes, a threesome, he could get behind that. But then he’d have to share Zayn, so maybe not for a while. Not until he’s gotten his fill of Zayn on his own. So maybe in fifty years or so. But the figuring out Zayn’s sexuality.

“Either.”

“So you were?”

“No, because she’s married.”

“But you know she was flirting?”

“People flirting with their local mechanic aren’t usually very subtle about it.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “No, I think people flirting with you just aren’t usually very subtle about it.”

“Oh?” Zayn takes his hands away from Harry’s shoulders, which Harry doesn’t approve of. So he turns a little so he can perch on the desk, and he pulls at Zayn’s hips until he’s standing between Harry’s legs. Not that he’s suggesting anything, ‘cause Zayn was pretty clear about that the first time. But a few hints can’t hurt. “You saying I’m thick?”

“I’m saying you’re just so pretty, aren’t you? It’s, like, you can’t be subtle, or else you won’t stand out against all the other people flirting with you.” Harry waves his hand vaguely, but Zayn’s tongue is pressed against his teeth in a small smile, and he’s looking down so that his eyelashes are just devastating, and Harry’s pretty sure he’s blushing, and if Harry hadn’t seen him asleep he wouldn’t have thought it but it’s the most adorable thing ever.

“Like you’d know anything about it, popstar,” Zayn says, teasing, his tongue still poking out, pink and tempting.

“People are always flirting with me,” Harry admits. Because they are. “But, like, that’s ‘cause I’m usually flirting with them. You’re just—you. And you’ve got to figure everyone who looks at you is always flirting with you, so you’ve got to be louder than everyone else or you won’t notice.”

Zayn looks up, suddenly, right through his lashes with big, sparkling eyes, and Harry wants to freeze it. Freeze the moment. Freeze it forever and put it above his bed so he can always see it and it can be all he sees when he’s asleep. “That why you were so loud, the first time?”

Harry shakes his head, and wraps his hands more firmly around Zayn’s hips, curving a little over his ass, just so there is no question of Zayn going away. “Nope. I just wanted you that bad.”

Zayn tips his head back and laughs, and Harry joins in even if he’s not entirely sure why, and then he has to pull Zayn towards him and kiss him again because there’s just nothing else he can do.

Zayn lets Harry kiss him, but he pulls back when Harry starts to pull Zayn in further, starts to kiss at his jaw. “How long you here for, popstar?” he asks, taking a step back, literally. 

He thinks, calculates, tries to figure out how necessary it is to take a shower in the morning and how much Liam’ll yell at him for being late. “I should get back tonight,” he finally says, reluctantly. He hates having actual work ethics. He blames his mother. “But not until late!”

“Okay then.” Zayn takes another step back, rolls his shoulders and shakes out his neck like he’s getting ready for something. “I need to work. You can hang around if you want, then we’ll go back to mine.”

“ _Zayn_.” Harry reaches out to grab for Zayn, but he pulls back so quickly one would think Louis’s nipple grabbing had trained him too. 

“I need to work.”

“No you don’t. You need to kiss me some more.”

“I really do. We can’t all just stand around looking pretty all day like you.”

“You could,” Harry points out, but he follows Zayn out into the garage. He likes watching Zayn work, he thinks. He’s only done it once, but it was pretty hot. “And I do work.”

“I know.” He says it so simply that Harry stops walking. People always tend to think musicians, once they make it big, don’t have to do anything but show up to concerts; no one talks about the interviews and photoshoots and PR stuff, and even less about the actual work of recording and rehearsing and infinite meetings with people who need stuff from him or who he apparently needs stuff from. 

Zayn makes it to the car that’s parked in the garage before he apparently notices that Harry’s not following him, and looks back, an eyebrow raised. 

“You do?” Harry’s fairly certain his jaw is dropping really unattractively, and his eyes are big and wide in that childish way Louis always laughs at him for and management tells him to stop because it makes him look young, but Zayn smiles at it, not quite the smile that Harry will get before he dies god damn it, but still something sweet and gentle and amused. 

“Yeah, ‘course. I had a mate who made it pretty big. Wasn’t all fun and games for him.” Zayn makes a face, the smile fading a little bit into something sarcastic and irritated and sad. “Was a bit too much fun and games, but not all of it.”

Harry nods knowledgably. He knows those sorts of people, who hit it big and then go a little crazy with all the parties and shit fame can give you. Louis did that, even if he pulled out of it. Harry’s not entirely sure how he managed to avoid all of it; maybe he was just too young when he started, or maybe his mum just scared him enough, or maybe Grimmy took him under his wing soon enough to teach him the right ways to handle fame. “He okay now?” he asks, because it’s all he can think of to say. He doesn’t like Zayn looking like that. It’s better than the not looking like anything at all, even if that’s pretty fucking hot too, but it’s almost as bad, this sad, cynical sort of look. 

“Yeah. He got out of it. Or so I hear, we kinda grew apart.” He rubs at the side of his hand like its aching, right over some letters Harry can’t read but makes a mental note to check later because he needs to get on memorizing every one of Zayn’s tattoos. Then he turns away again, and reaches into the car to pop the hood. “You can hang around, just don’t hurt yourself.”

“I wouldn’t!” Harry protests, and narrowly avoids tripping over something sharp as he goes to sit down on a stool.

Zayn works on the car for like an hour without anyone else coming in, just listening to Harry talk about his day and the photoshoot where he had to wear these weird overall things and a buttoned up shirt and it was the worst ever because it was really hot under those lights, and how he has an interview tomorrow and he really doesn’t like interviews because he never knows what to say because he always has to figure out what he should say before he does and he’s not good at it, except with Grimmy who always asks him questions he can answer well and sound charming and clever, which is part of why he loves Grimmy. He’s been talking for almost the whole time before he realizes how long it’s been, because Louis texts him asking him if he wants to go out tonight and he glances at the time when he replies that he can’t. He’s never said all these things at once. He’s not sure he’s ever said all these things to anyone, but Zayn just seems to absorb words. Not because he’s quiet, though maybe he is. He just listens or something, and never gasps or mocks when Harry says something stupid or weird or sassy. Never tells him that’s not something someone famous should say, that he should be grateful.

“Do you even have any customers?” Harry asks. They’ve been talking about him a lot. He likes to talk about him, but he also wants to find out about Zayn. Find out everything about him, take him apart and put him back together again with Harry at the center of him. 

Zayn shrugs, but as he’s got his head under the hood and is doing something that is making his arm muscles tense, it actually looks more like a twitch than anything else. It’s a hot twitch, though, so Harry doesn’t mention it, but Zayn might know because he swears under his breath before he actually answers. “Not many, really. ‘M not sure.”

“And you still manage to stay open?” Maybe the buying the shop and saving Zayn’s family from starvation and getting a lot of thank you sex and devotion is still on the table. 

“We break even, usually, I think.” There’s a clang, and Zayn swears again. Harry folds his hands purposefully into his lap. Partly because Zayn sounds really hot when he swears, and Harry wants to hear it on repeat as he fucks him, muttered into his ear because he can’t help it, but also because it sounds like painful things are happening and if painful things could be happening it’s usually best if Harry stays still and out of the way because otherwise he’ll fall in. “I don’t know. It’s more open for the town, you know.”

“Why?”

“If we’re not here, the next closest place is twenty minutes away, and that’s hard, a lot of the time. But I think my parents were going to close it, before I came back.”

“Why?”

“You ask that a lot, don’t you?” He peeks out from under the hood, but he doesn’t look angry, just a little curious, so Harry grins as widely and innocently as he can back at him. 

“Only to you. Why?”

Zayn bites at his tongue to keep from smiling, and Harry wants to go over there and taste that smile. But it’s gone before he can, so he settles for getting off the stool and wandering around, so he’ll be closer next time. 

“My parents own the pub in town, this is just a thing we always had ‘cause my dad likes cars, so I grew up on them too.” He runs a hand down the side of the car, and it’s not a fancy car or anything—Harry doesn’t know much about cars but he knows fancy when he sees it, has seen enough to find some sort of pattern—but it’s still so gentle a touch, not so much like it might break but like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch, that Harry shivers. He likes how Zayn touches him, the way he grabbed at him and bit into his skin and left bruises Harry was still finding the next day, but he thinks he’d like this too. He’s not sure anyone’s ever touched him like that. Like he was special, like he was the most important thing in the universe. “But then I guess they were thinking of closing it when it got to be too much work. But if I’m here, and they don’t really have to pay me much, might as well keep it open.”

“Why not work in the pub?” Harry meanders over to the far wall, where a space has been cleared except for some tarps on the floor, so he can see the whole wall. It’s covered in graffiti, the sort of loud, striking but purposeful thing that he thinks looks pretty cool but he’s pretty sure Grimmy would have a lot of intellectual things about. 

“Might surprise you, but I don’t actually like people that much.”

“Too many people fainted when you looked at them, I get it.”

He can almost hear Zayn’s eye roll as he traces over the edge of a black line on the wall. “Pot calling the kettle black, popstar?”

“Fair point.” Harry grins at the wall, because that is part of the job he likes, the screaming and the fans and all the love they always throw his way (except when they don’t, and that’s hard, of course, but usually it’s good, people tend to like him, or the him they see on TV). “Has anyone actually ever fainted when they looked at you?”

“’Course not.” Harry turns just in time to see Zayn’s eyes light up, glinting with mischief almost like Louis’s did, but and his lips curve into a gleeful smile that makes him look younger, somehow, like a little kid about the play a prank. “Have you?”

“No!” Harry yelps, but Zayn’s laughing, bracing his hands on his knees and laughing so his whole body shakes, and Harry can’t help but smile through his pout. “It was only, like, one girl, and it was hot out and she hadn’t drank much or anything that day and she had been waiting there for hours and it probably wasn’t me at all, and it was really scary actually, okay? I thought she had been shot and no one would tell me so I had to call the hospital myself and—”

“You called the hospital?” Zayn interrupts, suddenly. There are still traces of that laughter in his eyes. 

“Of course! She just collapsed! What if it had been my fault?” 

Zayn’s eyes seem to grow in size as he looks at Harry, until they’re taking up his whole face and they might actually be sparkling and Harry hadn’t even known eyes could do that outside of those anime things Liam reads, but it’s almost unbearable, how attractive it is. 

Then Zayn drops the rag onto the floor, crosses the room in three long strides, grabs Harry’s mouth, and kisses him. And suddenly Harry knows that what they were doing before wasn’t the best that he had thought it was, because that had been him kissing Zayn, and this is Zayn kissing him, pulling him in and slipping his tongue into his mouth and dragging across the roof of his mouth and his teeth nipping into Harry’s lip. Harry’s arms flail for a second, too surprised to do anything but flap, but then he grabs onto Zayn’s waist and melts into him, because how else is he supposed to deal with this. 

“What did I do right?” Harry asks, when finally breathing becomes an issue and Zayn lets him go. “Because I need to do it again, a lot.” Right now, preferably. Then on the bench. And in his pants. 

Zayn huffs out a laugh, but there’s something hard in his voice when he talks, something decisive. Like what he’s saying has another meaning Harry can’t be arsed to figure out because he’s still a little slap-happy from the kiss. “Fuck this, I can leave. Let’s go back to mine.” 

“Please,” Harry whines, and Zayn chuckles again as Harry grabs at him again and pulls him back in.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Halfway through by words, more than that in chapters (not counting the epilogue). Thanks for all the continuing support! The next chapter will be up Monday or Tuesday, most likely.

It’s a good next few weeks. Harry spends too much time in the car, maybe, but he also gets to spend a lot of time with Zayn, which makes up for everything. Sometimes he gets there early and sits in the garage and talks at Zayn, or he brings a book and reads to the background music of Zayn’s humming and the clanging of metal, or he just curls up in the office with his ipod in and breathes, knowing Zayn’s in the next room, knowing no one knows he’s there and he doesn’t have to be Harry Styles. Sometimes a customer comes in, and if they probably won’t know who he is Harry puts on a beanie and sunglasses and chats with them as Zayn does his mechanic-y things, or if they might know who he is he goes into the garage and waits there and watches through the window as Zayn interacts with them. He’s never talkative, really, never says very much, which makes Harry feel better, but sometimes he smiles and makes some small talk or asks about their kids and it makes Harry warm all over. And sometimes someone will flirt with him and he’ll just ignore it, and that’s a little weirder because Harry was one of them not too long ago. But he won. He managed it. So he doesn’t think too much about it.

And then after they’ll go to his flat, or sometimes Harry will go right there if he comes late enough, and then that’s great too, the way they fall into bed and Harry watches Zayn fall apart beneath him and taste the smoke off of Zayn’s lips and the sweat on his skin. He estimates he’s got about half of Zayn’s tattoos memorized. He’s willing to put in the effort to find more, though. And then after they’ll get takeout or Harry’ll make an omelet or something if Zayn happens to have the food for it and eat it in bed, their feet tangled together as Harry chokes on the overwhelmingly spicy curries Zayn orders and Zayn picks at Harry’s salads like a cat deigning to eat what’s put in front of it.

And then sometimes Harry’ll curl into Zayn’s side and Zayn’ll run his hand through Harry’s hair and that’s when he talks, sometimes. When Harry can ask him questions about university and his life here. He hears about Zayn’s family—and he loves how Zayn’s face softens whenever he talks about them, how he can’t stop the affection from coming through—and Danny and Ant and Niall, who it sounds like might be Zayn’s new best friend. He works at the pub, apparently, and is also Harry’s biggest fan. (“Thought you said it was your sister who had my poster on her wall,” Harry had asked, a little drowsy from the way Zayn was petting him, and Zayn had smiled a little wickedly and replied, “Oh her too,” and Harry had shaken off the drowsiness to see what else that wicked smirk was good for). Harry loves hearing about all of it. It sounds so normal, even if Zayn sometimes gets a weird expression on his face when Harry says that, a little wistful and a little mad. Harry wouldn’t want to live it—god, no, never, no matter how Zayn laughs when he says _that_ —but he likes to hear about it. Likes to feel like he’s touching on it, from the nest he’s made in Zayn’s bed.

So he stays there, a lot. As much as he can, escaping from London to the little safe place that is Zayn’s life.

\---

“So Harry,” the interviewer begins. The lights are really bright in Harry’s face, and it’s hot enough that he can feel his sweat beneath his suit jacket and plaid shirt, and it kinda hurts his head. He hadn’t gotten back to his apartment until after three, had kept on saying he should leave then nuzzling back into Zayn. It was really his fault, Harry had told him, when Zayn had poked at him and asked if he was planning to leave that night. He should having such a cozy bed and being so good at cuddling. It’s really not fair. But it meant he left really late, and got in late, and woke up early. And now he has a bit of a headache. But he manages to smile at the interviewer anyway, his most careful ‘I am interested but not too interested’ smile. “I hear you have someone new in your life.”

Harry nearly chokes. How had they—he had been so careful—they couldn’t have known—but he forces the panic down and smiles as innocently as he can. “Oh really?”

“Or should I say, someone old,” the interviewer goes on, and a picture comes up on the screen behind them. Harry’s almost too terrified to look, to see Zayn’s face sprawled across the screen for everyone to see and admire and take away from Harry—but when he glances over his shoulder, it’s all red hair and a bright dress and the pallor that comes from a paparazzi flash. “Rumor has it you’ve been seeing a lot of Jenn O’Hara recently,”

Harry smirks enigmatically to hide the panic. Just Jenn. Thank God, just Jenn and that paparazzi picture from ages ago. Not Zayn. “We’ve always been good friends,” he agrees, easily.

“Friends?”

“Well, we parted ways amicably.” He winks, because that’s what the interviewer expects, and sure enough he grins lewdly back. “Very amicably.” Which is true, really, Harry justifies.

“So is there romance in your future?” The interviewer presses, because of course they can never just leave it. Harry thinks of Zayn back in that little cozy flat, thinks of how after the party he’s going to tonight with Louis and Liam he’ll go to Zayn’s in the morning and because it’s a Sunday Zayn won’t have to work and they can spend all day in bed together, sleeping and fucking and talking and cuddling. Thinks about what he’ll say about this interviewer to Zayn, how he’ll make him laugh with the story about his bad toupee and his matey grin and how the stylist had nearly yanked his hair out by the roots trying to get it to stop being curly.

He gives them everything, he thinks. He gives them his music and his time and his smiles and all his best jokes and everything. He can keep this one thing. This one thing, just for him. Just to be him. “Nah, I don’t think so,” he replies, and leans back into his chair, crossing one ankle over the other. He gives the camera a conspiratorial smile, just in case Zayn is watching. “I’m not exactly one to be pinned down, you know?”

The interviewer chuckles again, and finally starts talking about the album that this whole interview was supposed to be about anyway. 

\---

Harry’s waiting outside Zayn’s apartment for half an hour when he starts to fret. He knows Zayn’s late a lot; most of Zayn’s stories start with him rushing in somewhere, or out of somewhere, or between places. He’s almost always late to start work, so that sometimes Harry has to roll him out of bed so he gets in on time. But he’s not usually this late, not for coming home, not when he knows Harry’ll be waiting. What if something’s wrong? What if he was rushing home and someone crashed into his motorcycle? What if someone got so mad at how pretty he was they attacked him? What if he finally got around to actually becoming a god and transcended without saying good-bye? And then maybe he would be doing all sorts of god things and occasionally glance down at Harry being sad at a concert and think about him but mostly he wouldn’t and he would be gone and if Zayn’s just being late Harry’s going to kill him. Or possibly jump him. Probably that. But also kill him.

Harry has settled very firmly on ‘kill’ when he hears the roar of a motorcycle and sees it streaking up the street. He’s half ready to just get out of the car and start yelling at him, about how worried he’s been and all those annoying things Liam always yells at him for but it’s Zayn and it’s important he not die—but then Zayn throws his leg over the bike and gets to his feet, peeling the helmet off and tucking it under one arm, and Harry’s brain jumps quickly back to ‘jump’.

He knows Zayn’s noticed the Range Rover, because the roll of his eyes and twitch of his lips are unmistakable now that Harry knows him, but Harry still uses all his willpower to wait until Zayn’s just unlocking the door and pulling it open before he gets out, slams the door shut, runs across the street, and nearly tackles Zayn inside.

Zayn goes with a quick, surprised exhale, as Harry pushes him against the wall, already lapping at Zayn’s neck, his hands scrabbling under the black t-shirt that makes Zayn’s skin glow.

“Eager, are we?” he asks, and Harry just makes an impatient noise—because, duh—before he gets his hands on the hem of Zayn’s shirt and starts to pull it up, even though he’s distracted a little by all the skin that’s getting bared, so that he can touch or he could lean down and lick and bite and taste or he could just get on his knees, and—

Zayn’s hands come down to cover Harry’s wrists, bringing them back down to his hips.

“Not here, popstar,” he says, his voice a low, hoarse growl that makes Harry whine and squirm beneath his fingers.

“Want you now,” he manages to get out, between grinding his hips against Zayn’s thigh so their dicks rub against each other through their jeans and Harry moans with it, keeps grinding to try to keep that friction better. Zayn’s just as hard, he can feel him through his jeans, and he’s pushing back just as hard as Harry is, but his fingers tighten around Harry’s wrists and pull them back so he’s not touching Zayn anymore and that’s the least okay ever, really.

“Not here,” Zayn repeats, even though his eyes are dark as his hair. Then, as Harry starts to whine again, “C’mon.”

He as good as pulls Harry upstairs, which to be fair Harry probably doesn’t help by grabbing at him any time he can, crowding close against his back as he unlocks his door, sliding his lips over the back of his neck and running his hands over the top of Zayn’s thighs, though he gets his hand slapped away when he tries to go for his dick.

“Not yet,” Zayn growls, as he fumbles the key into the lock. But Harry’s blood is pounding out a rhythm of wantwantwant and he’s never known how to wait, so he pushes Zayn through the door again and barely waits for him to kick it closed before he’s ripping Zayn’s shirt off.

Zayn lets him do it, easily, but then instead of falling back into bed like he usually does, he pushes, shoves Harry against the door so his back hits hard enough almost to hurt, and holds him there with his hips jammed against Harry’s and a knee between Harry’s thighs and his hands on either side of Harry’s head, and it’s hot enough that Harry is swallowing uncontrollably. “See what it’s like, getting pushed against things?” Zayn hisses out, and at the growl in his voice Harry whines and rolls his hips. Zayn’s hard too, so Harry reaches for him, but Zayn just grabs his wrist and brings it back up to the wall. “Not so fun, is it?”

“I’m having plenty fun,” Harry retorts, tries to grin, but is cut off when Zayn bites at his neck, hard enough that he knows he’s going to bruise. He hopes he bruises. But still, “Shit, not too high—”

“No one will see, don’t worry,” Zayn says, drawing a long, slow line over Harry’s skin with his tongue. “You’ll be the only one who’ll know it’s there.” 

Harry shudders, with the thought of it, with the thought of being on stage, of performing in front of thousands of people and having the mark of Zayn’s teeth beneath his shirt, like a badge or a brand, like an anchor. “And you,” he says, fiercely. 

“And me,” Zayn agrees, and there’s something amused in it. Too amused, and far too coherent for Harry’s liking, so he gives his hips another long, slow roll, getting their dicks to rub against each other again, and Zayn swears into Harry’s neck. 

“Like that, do you?” Zayn mutters when Harry grins, self-satisfied. 

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Okay then.” And Zayn bloody grinds his groin into Harry’s, so Harry’s hips buck and his back arches on a moan but he can’t move anywhere because Zayn’s still got him pinned to the wall, and when he reaches out with the other hand to touch something, anything, to get his jeans off or at least his dick out to relieve some of this pressure, Zayn grabs that hand too, pins it next to his head so all of Harry is trapped. 

“Zayn,” Harry moans, but Zayn gives him a smile that is almost a cheeky grin and almost something dark and dangerous and quite possibly the hottest thing Harry’s ever seen, and shoves his tongue into Harry mouth, his tongue fucking in and out as his hips keep moving and Harry writhes and can’t break free. Then he pulls away just far enough that Harry can see his pupils blown black, his lips swollen and pink with the force of Harry’s kisses. He’s never quite seen this Zayn before, who shoves him against things and takes what he wants, but he likes it. A lot. 

“Think you can keep your hands off?” Zayn asks. 

“What?” He’s impressed he can still hear words. 

Zayn moves Harry’s hands behind his head and presses them there with one hand over his wrists. “Think you can keep your hands off me while I get you off?”

“You gonna blow me?” Harry asks, eagerly. He’s been dreaming about those lips for what feels like years. 

“No.” It’s swift and firm and punctuated by Zayn’s nails digging into his wrists. But then Zayn smiles, and it’s wicked. “But I want to see if you can take not getting what you want.” 

“Think I’m getting it.”

“Fine then.” Zayn trails the hand not holding his arms down Harry’s shirt torturously slow, over his belly, down to his belt buckle—and stops, right above his groin, so Harry can imagine he feels the pressure of it against his dick but not really. “Think you can handle waiting for it, popstar?”

Harry thinks he’ll say anything, if only Zayn’ll touch him. “Yes!” 

“Then don’t move your hands, yeah?” 

Zayn waits for Harry’s nod, then lets go. He gives Harry a long, even look until Harry laces his fingers together and rests them on the wall. Then he nods, and drags Harry into another punishing kiss. But he moves his hips away, so Harry groans into the kiss and tries to push out. Zayn’s hands are on him, then, but not quite where he wants them, and pushing him back against the wall. “No,” he says, as sternly as he can be while breathless from the kiss. “Not this time, Harry.”

“But Zayn—”

Zayn cuts him off with another kiss. His hands come off of Harry’s hips, move slowly upwards, tracing the seam of Harry’s jeans, just brushing over the skin between his shirt and his pants, then up towards his elbows. It takes what feels like forever before he’s brought his hands between them, and then he undoes the first button of Harry’s shirt. When he moves his lips to the his chestbone, Harry groans, but Zayn just uses one hand to keep him against the wall while the other undoes the next, then the next, his tongue following his hand down Harry’s torso, feather light, until all the buttons are finally open and Harry’s muscles are straining. But he keeps his hands up, because he can do this, because Zayn said so, because this is the best kind of torture, as Zayn leans back to study him, his eyes hot and dark, like he’s considering what he wants to do next. 

But that also takes time, and Harry’s aching for it, shifting in his jeans to get the least bit of friction. “c’mon,” he whines, and Zayn’s tongue darts out to lick his lips. 

“Gonna slow down even more for that,” he chides, and Harry bites his teeth at him. He doesn’t get it, because he can see the strain of Zayn’s erection against his jeans too, but Zayn still just scratches his nails against Harry’s moth. Then he traces the edge of it, the wing, until he’s on Harry’s pec, and then, 

“Shit,” Harry swears, as he rubs across Harry’s nipple and Harry’s hips bucks. Zayn grins at that, and Harry almost swears again, but then Zayn’s leaning down and “Holy fucking shit,” as he takes the nipple between his teeth. “Please please please,” Harry doesn’t know what he’s saying when Zayn moves to the other nipple, gives it the same treatment, rolling it until it’s hard and pebbled, and his hands and hips and everything are still too far away from Harry’s dick. 

“Not good at waiting, are you?” Zayn muses against Harry’s stomach. His tongue flicks out, into Harry’s belly button. 

“No I’m not so hurry up, I want—”

“I know what you want.” And finally, finally Zayn’s hand comes to cup Harry’s dick through his jeans, and he keens with it, with the relief of even that brief touch. “But maybe I should wait…”

“I will kill you, I swear, Zayn—”

“No more waiting, I get it. Patience is a virtue, popstar.”

“Lies, all lies, it’s such a—yes.” Zayn’s undoing his belt, perilously slow, then he undoes the top button and pulls down the zip and Harry sobs with the relief of his dick being freed. 

“Could take an hour just to take off your jeans.”

“Then don’t fucking don’t, I don’t care—”

“Or you could just come in them, should have thought of that sooner—”

“I would, please, just, Zayn.”

Zayn’s laugh echoes out, but it must work because he just pushes Harry’s jeans and pants down to his thighs, so Harry’s dick is bobbing hard against his stomach. Zayn studies it for a second, then he looks up and meets Harry’s eyes. “Lick.”

“What?” Anything, if he gets to move his hands, gets to use them, to touch, to touch him or Zayn or someone. 

Zayn lifts his hand, and Harry gets the message. He runs his tongue over it, taking his time because it makes Zayn’s eyes flare and his hips roll. “Wet enough?”

“Should do,” Zayn agrees, and runs a finger whisper soft down Harry’s dick. It’s like electricity, the way it makes Harry cry out, but Zayn grins and does it again. “Like you aren’t aching enough already.”

“’cause you’re torturing me.”

Zayn stops, suddenly, and meets Harry’s eyes again, and the spark is—well, not gone, but dimmed. “You okay?”

“I will be if you ever get me off,” Harry mutters, but when the look doesn’t go away, “Yeah, yeah, this is—keep going.”

“Okay.” Zayn’s there again, pressed all against him so their everything is touching, Hary’s dick rubbing against the roughness of Zayn’s jeans, and Zayn catches Harry’s moan with his mouth as the friction sparks through Harry. Then he pulls back again, and Harry is ready to sob. “Maybe I should make you wait more. Really test you.”

“Don’t think you should,” Harry argues, but Zayn’s already undoing his jeans and stepping out of them, slow and teasing like he’s stripping, and okay, Harry approves of that. But then Zayn uses the hand Harry licked to wrap around himself, not Harry, and it’s both so unfair and so fucking hot, Zayn jerking off in long, lazy strokes, one hand trailing up and down Harry’s torso, his eyes following it like he wants to eat Harry, that Harry _can’t_. He unlaces his hands—and then suddenly Zayn’s there, catching his wrists instead of touching him. 

“Giving up, Styles?” he asks, like a challenge. 

“Yes, please, I will, just—” But he laces his fingers again, and Zayn stays pressed against him. Harry can feel him stroking himself, as his knuckles brush against his cock just light enough to tease.

“Think I should come first, really,” Zayn says, thoughtfully. He traces the script on Harry’s hips, then the tops of his thighs, then up to his belly button and down the trail of hair but he fucking stops again. “Seems only fair, I’m doing all the work.”

“Not sure you’re going to get a choice,” Harry grits out. Zayn’s barely even touched him and he can feel the orgasm building, ready to overwhelm. 

“Just another way to give up,” Zayn warns. 

“Not in the rules.”

“Were there rules?”

“Zayn!”

That chuckle again, dark and deep. “Still think I should come first.”

“Then fucking get on it already.”

“Get off, more,” Zayn counters, but his hand starts moving with purpose now, wrapped around him but close enough to Harry for real pressure, so that when Zayn’s hips move they jerk against Harry’s and it’s so good, it’s so close—Zayn bites into his throat again, and he thinks of that mark, the mark that only he’ll know, and the thought of it and the phantom pressure of Zayn’s hand and Zayn’s other hand back up over his wrists makes him stutter and, 

“Zayn, I’m gonna—”

“Wait for it.”

“I _can’t_.”

“Bet you can, popstar.” And he says it so fiercely, like he really believes, that Harry bites his lip and feels the tears in his eyes and holds it back as Zayn presses a bruising kiss into his mouth and he feels Zayn come with their lips together, feels him jerk and the come splatter over Harry’s stomach and Zayn slump forward with a broken moan. His hand stops moving and now it’s just Harry on the edge and—

“Please, Zayn—”

Zayn’s hand finally, finally curls around Harry’s dick. “Yeah, Harry, now,” and with just that pressure and the words Harry comes against Zayn’s thigh with a sob and a shout and stars in his eyes. 

They stand there, against the door, Zayn leaning against Harry who’s leaning against the door, for a long moment, both of them gasping for breath. Zayn’s got both his hands on Harry’s hips again, and his head resting in his neck, and Harry can breathe in the smell of him, sweat and smoke and sex. 

Slowly, painfully, he brings his arms back down to wrap around Zayn. “I did it,” he says, proudly, into Zayn’s ear. 

“You did,” Zayn agrees, and Harry thinks he hears pride. He fucking should. That was possible the best orgasm Harry’s ever had. “Push me onto the bed?”

“You think I can move?” Harry retorts. He doesn’t think he’s ever moving again. “You’re the one who did the—thing.”

“Articulate, Styles.”

“They’re words.”

Zayn groans and lifts his head up. There’s a grin twitching at the corners of his lips and eyes. “And observant, too.”

“Fuck off.” But Harry gets distracted in scowling down at him first but his eyelashes, then by the come drying between them. “Can we get cleaned up first?”

“Do it yourself.”

“Can’t, you’re in the way.”

“Fine.” With a sigh, Zayn straightens, then tumbles almost immediately backwards into the bed, leaving Harry to go get a washcloth. When he’s done, he falls on top of Zayn, both of them naked on top of the blankets. Zayn’s chest is rising and falling steadily, and his fingers work their way into Harry’s hair, and all in all it’s like every other after they’ve had. Except,  
   
“Are you okay?”

“What?” Zayn’s shock is a little less than convincing, as his fingers pause and Harry can feel his heart skip a beat.

“That was—well, you don’t usually—”

“You objecting?” He can hear the smirk in Zayn’s voice without even looking at him. Really, Harry’s pretty okay with that. 

“No, but. You were late, and then you were all aggressive, and maybe a little mad, so are you okay?”

The breath goes out of Zayn’s chest in a slow, long exhale. “Yeah, ‘m fine.”

“Why were you late?”

“Just work.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” It’s such a lie, because Zayn doesn’t really care enough about his work to stay late, and he’s never done that before, that Harry sits up to look at him. He gives his best puppy dog stare, and sure enough, it only takes Zayn a minute before he’s rolling his eyes. “’m just frustrated, is all. Had one of those existential angst moments.”

“Existential angst?” Now that Harry’s sitting up, he gets all the way up, padding over to the fridge to see if there’s anything in there.

 “You ever have a moment where you suddenly looked at your life and thought, ‘what am I doing?’”

Harry takes a second to review, but, “No, not really.”

“Course not.” He hears shifting on the bed as he opens the refrigerator door. There’s an apple, a pint of milk, and half of a six-pack. Harry’s always a little worried he’s going to come back only to find Zayn’s wasted away into nothing. He claims to eat at his parent’s a lot, but Harry can also usually count his ribs, so he’s not sure he believes him. “Well, I do. And I just had one, and it’s never fun.”

“Why?” Harry selects the beer and closes the door.

“I—you know that friend of mine, who made it big? He’s just gotten an award.”

“And?” Harry opens the beer and turns back to the bed. Zayn’s stretched out across it still, his arms crossed over his chest, and there’s a crease between his eyebrows Harry just wants to kiss away.

“And I’m in a bloody garage!” Zayn snaps, whiplash harsh. It’s enough that Harry draws back, away from his anger. Zayn lets out a rough breath, closes his eyes for a second like he needs to find his calm again.

Slowly, Harry approaches the bed. “Are you not happy with it?” If Zayn’s not, he’ll do—something. He’ll make him happy. He’ll kidnap him and they can go to one of those rich-people tropical islands he’s always tried to get Louis to go with him to where there aren’t any paparazzi and they can just lie by the pool naked all day. He’ll buy him a million books so that’s all he has to do. They can go to Paris, Zayn’s the kind of person who would do great in Paris, all broody and handsome and skinny. They can—he doesn’t know, do whatever Zayn wants.

“It’s not what I planned on.” Zayn rolls his eyes when Harry hesitates at the edge of the bed. “I’m not going to bite, I’m just snappy.”

“Too bad.” Harry spares a cheeky grin before he settles cross-legged on the bed. “What did you plan on?” he asks around a sip of beer.

“I went to uni to be an English teacher.” Harry knows, he’s filed away every bit of himself Zayn’s ever given him, but he just asks,

“Why aren’t you?”

Zayn’s lips press together. “’s not always that simple, is it? Or,” he goes on, when Harry goes to interrupt, “Maybe for you it is. But it’s not for me, yeah? I was just kind of doing it, I think, and when I noticed that—and that mate, you know, he was doing what he loved, right? And I didn’t love the idea of teaching, not like that. Not like he did, like he was willing to wait for it and starve for it and work for it. So, I dunno. I came home.” Zayn shrugs, and runs a hand back through his hair. “And it’s not bad, really. I just have moments.”

“So what do you want to do?” Harry tries. He’s—well, he’s not entirely sure of what to say. He’s never _not_ wanted something.

“Dunno, that’s the problem. Like, I liked art, but it’s not something you can just do, yeah?”

“Art?” Harry interrupts, eyes wide. “Like, doing it?”

“Yeah, I did some at uni and all, still do, but, I don’t know—”

“Still do?” Harry interrupts again. This is important. This is making Zayn even hotter, if it was possible. “Are any of these yours?”

“The Monet,” Zayn informs him, straight-faced, then when Harry pouts he rolls his eyes. “Nah, none of these. I mainly work at the garage, now, ‘cause I am renting—where are you going?” Harry’s set the beer on the floor and gotten up again, turning to look for his jeans.

“We’ve got to go see it!”

“Harry—”

“Come on, get up, get your pants on.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

Harry pauses in the middle of putting his jeans back on—a balancing feat of which he’s rather proud—to throw his best pop star wink at Zayn. “Not for long.” He grabs Zayn’s own jeans and throws them at him. “Let’s go, I wanna see!”

“It’s not that good, Harry, you don’t—”

“I want to see,” Harry repeats, and finishes buttoning up his shirt. It’s very sad, being all dressed when Zayn is still naked on his bed, but these are the burdens he must bear. “Come on, get dressed already!”

“Really?” Zayn stretches, long and languorous as a cat, his lips curved into a smirk that means he knows exactly what he’s doing to Harry as his skin slides over his bedspread and Harry’s dick twitches with interest.

Harry claps a hand over his eyes so he isn’t tempted. “Yes, really. Please?”

“Fine.” Zayn huffs out. Then, mischievously enough that Harry peaks through his fingers to see his smirk widening. “But we’re taking my bike.”

It hits Harry full in the gut. “Really?” he’s not entirely sure him on a motorcycle is a good idea, given his predilection for falling off of, well, everything, but the thought of getting behind Zayn on that bike, pressed against his back as the machine purrs beneath them—he doesn’t care if he dies, he’ll go out happy.

“I’m not getting in that tank you call a car. I’ve got another helmet, don’t worry. No one’ll see you.”

Harry hadn’t even thought of that. “But I’ll get helmet hair!”

“I think you’ll live through it.”

“Says you, mister my hair is always attractive no matter what I do with it.”

Zayn emerges from the t-shirt he’s yanked on to give Harry a level stare. “Really, popstar? You even looked good at the interview yesterday, and you were wearing a heart-patterned shirt.”

“You watched?” He didn’t think Zayn usually did, but he always hopes.

“Nah, my sister told me. And Niall, actually.” Zayn crouches to pull another helmet out from under the bed, then tosses it to Harry. “Apparently, while not your hottest, you were still enough to make thirteen year olds swoon.”

“I try.”

“Although apparently you’re slumming it.” Zayn scoops up his keys, his jacket, and his helmet as Harry tries to pull on his shoes.

“With…?”

“Jenn O’Hara. She’s not good enough for you, I’ve heard.” Harry laughs at that, because that’s the least of his problems.

“She’s nice!” he protests, and bounces over to the door to hold it open. Zayn pauses, for a second, like he’s going to say something, but then he shakes his head and lets Harry usher him out the door.

Harry forgets his worry about getting on any vehicle that depends on balance when Zayn straddles the bike. It’s so easy and casual and fuck Harry wants him straddling him like that, and then Zayn grins at him from the sidewalk. “C’mon, put your helmet on and get out here,” he calls, and Harry can’t help but go. 

He nearly oversets the bike when he gets on, but Zayn just laughs and steadies him. He looks happier than he has, or maybe just younger, his shoulders relaxed as Harry slips his arms around his waist and grabs him. The engine thrums and Harry jumps a little, not expecting the vibration; Zayn chuckles again. “Hold on, popstar,” he says, and goes. 

Harry’s seen Zayn drive places, seen him screech to a stop at curbs or into parking lots, but he’s always figured that’s because Zayn’s always late. Zayn’s not a full speed kind of guy, normally; he goes at his own measured pace, makes Harry wait and takes his time and does things on a regular schedule. He’s a little like Liam, in that; the steadiness. 

But he peels out onto the street with a low whoop no matter that they’re in no hurry, and Harry might have started out holding onto Zayn because he liked the way his stomach felt, the edges of muscles beneath his fingers, but as soon as he goes he’s holding on because he thinks he might fall off if he doesn’t. He makes a muffled meep that has Zayn laughing, the sound carrying back through their helmets to Harry as he zips through a yellow light. It’s late out, thank god, so there aren’t really any other cars, or maybe Zayn’s just taking back roads because Harry doesn’t think he recognizes these streets, but they hardly slow down at all as they go through another intersection. 

It should be terrifying, but after that first moment of surprise it’s not. It’s just incredibly hot, the way Zayn handles the bike, competent and strong; the way he vibrates with it like he’s eating up the energy in the speed; the way his back shifts against Harry’s chest and his abs flex beneath his fingers; the way the wind whistles past them, carrying Zayn’s pleased laughter and catching on Harry’s skin just these side of pain. 

They skid to a stop in front of the garage, parked on a dime next to the curb, and Harry’s shaking. His fingers are locked in Zayn’s t-shirt, his chest is plastered against Zayn’s back, and if he didn’t have his helmet on he would be devouring every inch of Zayn he could see. 

Zayn laughs again, loud and gleeful, and peels Harry’s fingers out of his t-shirt before he gets off. “Like that, popstar?” he chuckles, pulling off his helmet. His hair is a wild mess, his cheeks are flushed with exhilaration, and his pupils are dilated like they get when Harry sucks him off just right, and Harry’s never seen him look like this, blazing bright as a star. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes. He rips off his own helmet and lunges. It would have worked better if he hadn’t tripped over the bike and had to hop around a bit to get his balance back, but as he ends up tumbling into Zayn when he moves forward to catch him, he counts it as a win. He barely has time to catch his breath again when Zayn is kissing him, his lips fierce and demanding, and Harry can’t help but give in to the sudden brightness of him, the way he grabs and devours like Harry’s everything he ever wanted in the world. 

Then he lets go and steps back, his grin flashing against the setting sun. “Fuck, I forgot how much I loved that.”

It takes Harry a few seconds to put his head back on, then a few more to not jump Zayn in the middle of the street. “You don’t usually drive like that?” he finally gets out. 

“Kinda unsafe, isn’t it?” Zayn smirks, and reaches out to ruffle Harry’s hair. “But I’ve been wanting to get you on that bike for ages. Thought you’d get a thrill out of it.”

“Can we do it again?” 

“The riding or the kissing?” 

“Both. Together.” 

Zayn’s adam’s apple bobs, and his fists clench at his sides. Harry doesn’t blame him; his throats a little dry too. He’d thought about the bike, but now he knows, now he really has the image of them just getting on that bike and going, going and going like that for ages until they can’t stand it anymore, until Zayn has to pull over to the side of the road and let Harry blow him right there, suck that vibrating energy out of him with his hands braced on the handlebars and the engine purring beneath them. Or Harry bent over the seat, holding on for dear life like he just had been as Zayn fucked into him from behind, teasing and taunting like he had been just an hour ago, making Harry squirm against the leather and muttering dirty things into his ear. 

“Yeah,” Zayn says, and it almost makes Harry jolt, the reality of him not touching him right that moment everywhere. His voice is a rasp that has Harry betting that yeah, he was thinking that too. “Yeah, we can do that.” 

“Good.” Harry swallows, and makes the pointed decision not to look at the bike. They’ll have to ride it back, anyway. And then there’s a bed and all night and maybe some of the morning too. “So where’s your art?”

He can almost see Zayn stop glowing. Can almost see him draw back into himself, and it’s awful, it is, the way he tries to be so much less than he is. “Yeah, sure. It’s in here.” He tucks the helmet under his arm, and turns to go to the garage. Which is weird, because Harry thought he’d seen everywhere in there, but maybe there’s some secret passage, a hidden room, maybe a hidden basement where Zayn keeps his art, like a secret only the special people like Harry can know, because that’s how Zayn is, a secret wrapped in more secrets with all this wonderful stuff inside. 

But Zayn just unlocks the door that goes right to the garage, and flicks on a light. Then he doesn’t move, like they’re there.

Harry looks around. A few cars, the tool bench, a lot of other tools Harry’s not allowed to touch. Is he supposed to start tapping on walls? 

Walls! He looks to the graffiti wall, bright colors and loud expression, and thinks to the way Zayn burned getting off the bike, and turns to Zayn with wide eyes. “You did that!” he asks, gesturing to the wall. 

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve painted over it a lot, so this is just what I did in the past week, but it’s my art, I guess.” 

Harry leaves Zayn behind to scamper forward, then backs up a few spaces so he can take it in. He doesn’t know why he never thought about this wall, really, the way it changes a lot but always looks really cool, but it’s brilliant, really. Beautiful, for one, and for two he’s pretty sure he could stand around with Nick and make a lot of pretentious comments about it, so it’s everything art should be, in his mind. 

“Zayn, this is sick!” he announces, spinning again to find Zayn’s come up behind him. 

Zayn shrugs. But he reaches out one hand to stroke down the wall. “’s just something I’ve always done, yeah? Even as a kid, I did some tagging.”

“Zayn! So many sides of you I didn’t know.” Harry grabs the hand that just touched the wall and kisses his fingertips, one at a time. “This is really cool. You should do something with it.”

“Like what?” 

“Like be an artist! Sell this stuff. Or, no, I guess it’d have to be an installation, but you could still totally get people into it, it’s like Banksy and all. I know—”

Zayn pulls his hand away. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, popstar.”

“I’m always ahead of myself,” Harry says nonsensically, but it makes Zayn giggle even though his face is serious. “But really, you should come to London! Do something with it. Be brilliant.”

For a long moment, Harry thinks Zayn is going to say yes. Thinks he’s going to drop everything and they can ride to London on his motorbike and tumble into Harry’s bed and it’s so scary and so thrilling Harry shuffles it away to think about later. 

But then Zayn shakes his head, and his laugh has that cold, wry edge to it. “But then who’d take care of your car?” he asks, but the smirk and the way he slaps Harry’s ass makes it clear what he means. “Come on, we should get back, I’m starving.” 

Harry thinks about protesting, but then he thinks about getting on the bike again, and priorities.


	7. Chapter 7

In the morning, Harry wakes Zayn up with a slow, sloppy blow job that’s nothing like the fast, frantic fuck they had the night before after getting back, Harry still tingling from the ride and Zayn jerky and demanding like he hasn’t been. Zayn comes with his hands in Harry’s hair and a ‘Harry’ on his lips before he even opens his eyes, which Harry tucks away to replay when he needs a wank and the thousands of other images he has of Zayn aren’t working, then makes adorable little snuffling sounds when Harry gets off and goes to make coffee. 

They’re sitting at the table munching on some cereal Harry found—or, Harry is; Zayn’s leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in his hands like he’s trying to inhale it—when Harry remembers what he meant to say yesterday before he got sidetracked by awesome sex and art and motorcycles. 

“My drop party’s next week,” he says. Zayn makes an agreeing sound. He probably barely understood, he’s staring into his mug so hard. “And then there’s a lot of promo and everything for the album, and some of it’s in LA, so I’m going there for a few days as well.” Another agreeing noise. He probably could have timed this better. “Zayn,” he whines. “Are you listening?”

“Drop party. Promo. LA.” Zayn looks up from his mug and nods, but his eyes aren’t sleepy-soft like Harry expected. “Got it. So I assume you won’t be here for a while?” 

He says it so evenly, so calmly, that Harry wants to scream. He hasn’t talked to Harry like that in ages, like he couldn’t care less what he does, like Harry’s just a name on the news. This isn’t the Zayn who trapped him against the wall and made him ache, or the Zayn who burned so brightly last night. This is the old Zayn, and he doesn’t like him at all, except for how he does. 

“Ten days, probably,” Harry agrees. He looks at Zayn, the way his sweatpants hang off his hips even though they’re too short and tight on Harry, the way his muscles are clenched because of how he’s holding the mug, his painfully pretty eyelashes dark around just as painfully pretty eyes. Reaches up to run a finger over the marks on his collarbone. “Then I think you should fuck me.” 

Zayn nearly drops his mug. Harry doesn’t bother not snorting. 

“You do that?” 

Harry shrugs. People tend to assume he doesn’t, because he’s pretty big and muscled and tends to be flirty and aggressive, and because he’s Harry Styles, so clearly he’s always got to top. But the truth is he doesn’t mind bottoming, especially with the right person, like the feeling of being filled up, of being taken care of and taken apart. ‘s just not usually what people think he is, so he doesn’t bother, because he likes topping too, likes to watch men moan and groan his name. “Yeah, sometimes. You?”

“Yeah.” Of course he does. Harry might not have thought it until last night, but of course he does. “Yeah,” he repeats, answering both questions. “That’d be—yeah.”

“But not ‘til I get back,” Harry warns. He doesn’t know why, it’s not like he might not manage to get time to come tomorrow—come, haha—but…he wants to wait. He wants Zayn to wait, wants Zayn to think about it and burn with it and plan it and remember the idea of it when Harry’s gone. And if Harry has to wait too, well, he’ll live. Possibly. With a lot of wanking. 

His phone buzzes; he checks it while Zayn gulps down the last of his coffee and pulls on a t-shirt. Zayn’s only just emerging from it when Harry says, 

“I’ve got to go, apparently there’s a meeting in a few hours.” 

“Okay. See you in ten days, then?” And he still sounds so unconcerned, like it’s just ten days, whatever, that Harry crosses the room as quickly and predatorily as he can, pushing into Zayn’s space until there’s not even air between them. 

“Ten days,” he agrees, breathing into Zayn’s ear. He reaches behind Zayn to grab his ass, then trails his mouth down Zayn’s neck until he’s bitten a good-sized mark into his skin. Let Zayn try to forget about that. “I want you inside of me.” When Zayn breathes in sharply. Harry squeezes his ass again, then kisses Zayn one last time, just for him, to remember how he tastes and feels and so Zayn’ll have his taste on his lips always. “Bye!” 

He’s out the door before Zayn can finish swearing grumpily at him for not finishing what he started. 

\---

The party is loud and crowded and dark with flashing lights and exciting and everything Harry wants in a party. Not that he can take credit for it, management did everything even the guest list, or most of it, but Harry can enjoy it, because it is for him, after all, he made the album and sang the songs and smiled at all the right people and now he can get drunk and keep smiling at all the right people. He likes being drunk, likes the feeling of moving through the party and having everyone stop him and congratulate him and say how great he is and what will he do next and can they take a picture and has he heard and will you and talk to me, Harry. It’s why he became a star, it’s what he wanted so badly that he couldn’t not, that he might have died if he had lost X Factor because this is everything, everything moving so fast and bright-dark and just on the edge of overwhelming so Harry can dip his toe in if he wants, like sitting on that motorbike behind Zayn and feeling the world whip past them both.

“He should be here,” he announces, throwing himself into a booth next to Liam. Liam’s still a bit awkward at parties, always feels like he has to be responsible for Harry even now that he drinks and is legal and everything, but it’s, like, Harry and Louis’s combined life goal to fix that.

Still, Liam smiles like he’s humoring Harry. “Who?”

“Zaaaayn,” Harry replies, or maybe just slurs, dragging out the a, because of course that’s who, who else would it be when he can still taste Zayn on his lips even though he’s almost kissed like four other people so far tonight, would have done more than kiss them if he hadn’t had the promise of Zayn to come back to. “Why isn’t he here, Li? Want him here.”

“Okay, Haz.” Liam ruffles Harry’s hair, like it isn’t messy enough already with the dancing and the drinking and the things in between he can’t remember, but he thinks there were pictures? “We’ll get him for you.”

“Good, want him here.”

“Him who?” Louis asks, sliding into the seat across from them and stealing Liam’s drink. “Are we talking about Harry’s mysterious lover who’s taking him from us?”

“Not taking,” Harry says, but then he giggles, because he will be taking Harry.

“Fine, then, are we talking about Harry’s mysterious lover who’s the reason he hasn’t pulled in ages?”

“Yep!” Harry agrees, happily. “Him. He should be here, Lou. Can you get him for me?”

“Of course, love, I’ll just google ‘Harry’s boy’ and find his number that way.”

Harry sticks his tongue out at Louis, but he thinks Louis would like Zayn, and vice versa. They’ve both got all the tattoos and Zayn likes Louis’s music and they both laugh at a lot of the same things Harry says, even if Louis makes fun of his stories and Zayn usually doesn’t.

“Or Harry could just tell us his name, and we could find him that way,” Liam points out. Zayn would like Liam too, Harry knows. They could talk about superheroes and be responsible together and look at Harry like he was being ridiculous, which he usually is so he doesn’t mind.

But, “Nope, can’t tell you,” he says, shaking his head firmly so the curls flop into his eyes, loosed from their gel by the heat. “He’s a _secret_.”

“Even from us!” Louis puts a hand over his heart, but there’s a look in his eyes that means he’s worried and he’d be more so if he wasn’t also drunk. In a weird sort of symmetry, he also grips his own forearm. 

Harry reaches out to pat his hand. He gets more of his face, but that’s good enough. “Not because he’s bad or anything, he’s good. He’s just mine. Not theirs.”

Louis nods at that, because of course he gets it too, even if he isn’t quite as big a name as Harry and his fans are a little less stalkery. Harry loves his fans, but it gets tiring, walking outside to a legion of screaming girls all the time, except when he’s at Zayn’s and there’s only the good kind of screaming.

“And you still want him here?” Liam asks, still with his Harry is being silly face on. Harry pokes at it.

“I always want him here,” he says, like it’s obvious because it is obvious, because of course he always wants Zayn with him even though it would mean a lot more paparazzi and bright flashing cameras and people taking him away. But it would be okay because Zayn would be here. 

Louis’s smirk is not as pretty as Zayn, and it’s a little meaner. Which is okay, because it’s Louis and Louis’s a little meaner, a little wilder than Zayn, and that’s good too because he doesn’t love Louis like he loves Zayn. “Look at that. Harry Styles, womanizer, caught.”

“’m not a womanizer,” Harry objects. “I’m a man and womanizer, remember? And not even that, ‘cause I haven’t slept with anyone else since—Nick!” he yells, as he sees Nick come in, and then he has to go say hi and give him a hug and properly embarrass him and then he has to dance more and he kisses some starlet because she winks and grins and dares him to and the PR person shrugs like whatever and then he stumbles out of the party with an arm around one of Nick’s friends because that’s the only way he’ll stand up and he can’t look like he’s falling over and she’s going his way anyway so she can pour him into his flat. He falls asleep to the thought that his bed is big and empty and he wants it to smell like Zayn and also that he needs to release more albums if all the parties are that good.

\---

LA is—exhausting, like it always is. Fun, so much fun, all the lights and colors and meetings and bars and friends and drinks and interviews and things for Harry to see, but exhausting. Harry doesn’t think he sleeps for the whole three days he’s there, and then the plane out of JFK is delayed like four hours but he can’t sleep because it might leave and he always has this awful paranoia he’ll somehow end up on the wrong flight if he falls asleep at the wrong time, and then there’s a baby on the plane and he loves babies but it’s crying really loudly and he can’t sleep, although he gets to play with a baby for the whole six hours so that’s awesome. But it’s midnight when they get into London, and he didn’t have time to get over jet lag going there so his body is just confused and tired and all he wants to do is fall into bed.

So he’s fairly surprised when he finds himself looking up to see Zayn’s building. He barely even remembers driving there. He probably shouldn’t do that. But now that he’s here he wants to be here more than anything else, so he stumbles out of the car and over to the buzzer and leans on it, bracing his head against the brick of the wall.

“If you’re trashed and lost your bloody key again, Ni—” Zayn’s sleep-rough voice comes over the intercom, and Harry feels better just hearing it, like the open vowels set off something warm and comforting in him.

“Zayn,” he moans, because it’s the only word he can make out.

A pause, then, “Shit, Harry. Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

He’s too tired to be cheeky. He’s not sure that’s ever happened before. “Let me in?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” The buzzer goes off, and Harry drags himself upstairs to where Zayn’s waiting with the door open. And, like, he’s tired, but he’d somehow forgotten just how lovely Zayn is, here with sweatpants on and nothing else, his eyes half-lidded with sleep and skin catching the light from the room behind him so it glows gold.

“Hey, babe—” Harry tries to start as he reaches him, but then he’s yawning big enough that he has to stop leaning in for a kiss.

“Sexy,” Zayn drawls, but he draws Harry in anyway, his hands warm and welcoming on Harry’s wrists. “When’d you get back?”

“Few hours ago?” he yawns again. “I’m sorry, I—we—”

“Hey, I’ll never begrudge someone their sleep.” Zayn chuckles as he says it, but his hands are gentle and easy as they unbutton Harry’s shirt. Harry’s too tired even to be turned on, just stands there and lets Zayn ease his shirt off, then his pants, just as gently.

Still, “Sorry,” Harry says again, “Can’t—not tonight…”

“Figured,” Zayn agrees. He leaves Harry standing there in just his boxers in the middle of the room and gets something from his closet, then comes back over and kneels down in front of Harry. “Leg.” Harry lifts up his leg, one of his hands resting on Zayn’s head to steady himself. Zayn slides on the sweatpants like that, one leg at a time, then rises out of his crouch. Harry thinks that if he was a little less about to fall over, he’d be entirely hard at the sight of that, Zayn getting up from kneeling in front of him, Harry’s hand sliding from his hair down his cheek to his shoulder.

“Okay, popstar. Time for bed.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, a little vaguely, and lets Zayn guide him into bed then slide in next to him. He pulls the blankets over both of them, then turns Harry so Zayn’s wrapped around him like he’s keeping him warm and safe, his hand on Harry’s hip like an anchor.

“C’mon, love,” Zayn murmurs in his ear, “sleep.” And the bed smells like Zayn and Zayn smells like Zayn and feels like him and his hand is drawing comforting circles against Harry’s skin, and Harry can’t keep his eyes open any longer.

\---

His internal clock must be even more messed up than he thought, or maybe he’s just that tired, because when he wakes up he’s alone in bed. There’s a second where he thinks he just dreamed it—just dreamed driving out, Zayn putting him to bed and touching him like he was going to break, because that was so much what he had wanted. But then he inhales, and it smells and tastes like smoke, and he can hear the not-London noise outside, and someone’s humming softly. 

So Harry opens his eyes. Thick, golden morning light is coating the room, and when he sits up a little, he can see Zayn in the kitchen, his headphones in, humming along to some song Harry doesn’t recognize. It’s as much the tempting sound of water boiling for tea as the way Zayn’s shoulders roll in time to the music that has Harry getting himself out of bed and sneaking over to the kitchen, very carefully avoiding all the many pitfalls on the floor. One day, he is going to clean this flat from top to bottom, he swears. 

But not today. Or at least, not right now. Right now, he leans against Zayn and rests his head on his shoulder and wraps his hands around Zayn’s stomach, absorbing Zayn’s little jump of surprise. This close, he can hear the Usher coming out of the headphones. 

“Hey,” he says, into Zayn’s ear. Or cheek, but, whatever, he’s not picky. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” He can feel the moment Zayn relaxes, sinks back into him so Harry can nuzzle at his neck. But that’s not enough, really, so Harry moves one of his hands to tilt Zayn’s face so he can kiss him, long and slow, just to make sure he still tastes like Zayn. To make sure Zayn still tastes like him.

Zayn’s smiling when Harry lets him go, a small, gentle thing that feels so much more special because it is so small. “Good morning,” he repeats, lingering over the words like they taste good.

Harry grins back. It is a good morning. He’s here and Zayn’s here and what else can he ask for?

 Then the kettle starts to whistle, and Harry has his answer. Tea. Tea is what else he can ask for. But Zayn has to slip away from him to make it, pulling two teabags out of a cupboard he has to stand on his tiptoes to reach, so that he’s just one long line of twisting muscle. Harry leans back against the counter to watch him, to see his sweatpants shift on his slim hips and the confidence in his shoulders as he brews the tea. He considers, for a second, just going over there and kissing down that golden back, a kiss on every bone of his spine until he reaches the bottom than keeping going—but then he wouldn’t get tea. So he crosses his arms firmly over his chest so he can resist temptation, and keeps them there until Zayn turns around to hand him his mug.

It’s good, strong Yorkshire tea, even if they’re not in the North, but Harry’s mug is one of the ones kids give their parents for mother’s day, with Zayn and his three sisters smiling out on it. It kind of sums Zayn up, Harry thinks, in a metaphor he’s pretty proud of; so strongly rooted in the places and people he came from.

“Deep thoughts, Styles?” Zayn asks, smirking at him a little over his own mug—what looks like one of Louis’s souvenir mugs from a concert, which Harry always thought was a stupid thing to sell. He wants Zayn to have one of his, though, now. Not Louis’s. He’ll have to find a mug of him to sneak into the cupboard. He’s sure there’s one on ebay.

“Not really.” Harry breathes in the scent of the tea. You can’t get tea like this in America, it’s one of the major problems with the country. “Just glad to be back.”

“All the movie stars bully you?”

Harry sticks out his tongue. “No, they’re awesome, actually, I will have you know. But it’s not home, you know? I don’t think I slept when I was there.”

“Explains why you were almost fainting when you got here.”

“I wasn’t fainting!”

“You were almost unconscious, Harry. I had to get you dressed. It’s not nearly as much fun as the other way around.”

“Well, you can take them off of me,” Harry retorts with a wink, gesturing at his sweatpants with his free hand. “But not ‘til I’ve finished my tea, I’m comfy.” Then he stops. Pauses. These sweatpants are comfortable. They don’t pull around his hips or feel awkwardly short. They can’t be Zayn’s. He swallows his tea, and tightens his grip around the mug. “Zayn, whose sweatpants are these?”

“The guy I’ve been fucking while you’re away,” Zayn replies, easily, and Harry nearly drops the mug before he realizes Zayn is laughing.

“Zayn!” he snaps, or maybe whines. “That was mean.”

He just shrugs. He must never meet Louis, Harry decides, still trying to get his breath back from the blow those words had struck. They weren’t true. They weren’t. “Funny, though.”

“Really wasn’t.” He frowns into his tea. “Whose are they?”

“I bought them for you, you’re always stealing mine.” That got Harry to look up, because that was possibly the sweetest thing anyone’d ever done for him, in a weird domestic sort of way. Zayn bought him sweatpants. Zayn wants him around. But he isn’t laughing, anymore. His face is weird and serious and closed-off. “Would you have minded, then? If they were another guy’s?”

“Yes!” Harry nearly shouts. It’s his biggest fear, other than the really big ones. He only gets these little parts of Zayn, these hours here and there and then he has to leave and what if Zayn is out one night when Harry can’t be there and finds someone who makes him forget Harry? Who can be there all the time and doesn’t have to commute or go away for days and who he can introduce to his friends? 

It’s a biting, constant fear, somewhere beneath his heart, one he can usually ignore but it never goes away. It’s enough to want to steal Zayn away, take him back to London with him and tell him to mechanic there, or be a teacher, or an artist, or whatever he wants, or nothing at all because Harry has enough money for the two of them. To take Zayn to parties and say ‘yes’ when interviewers ask if he’s saying something and talk all about his beautiful, wonderful boyfriend at concerts and introduce him to Liam and Nick and Louis and his mum.

But Harry also knows all the baggage he comes with, and it’s not fair to expect Zayn to deal with it. Zayn’s not like Harry, he doesn’t love-want-need the spotlight. He keeps himself closed, doles himself out in little bits and pieces so each one’s a treat, and he doesn’t want Harry’s flashing world of questions and motion and noise noise noise. And that’s fair, that’s okay, that’s part of him being Zayn. But it means the fear of finding someone who will fit into his life is always there, even though he trusts Zayn, he knows he wouldn’t cheat.

“Yes,” he repeats. He puts down his mug of coffee, and crosses the room to Zayn as quickly as he can. He grabs the mug out of his hands and puts it on the nearest flat surface, then kisses Zayn as hard and fierce as he can, so Zayn will never think of anyone else, will never think anyone will taste as good as Harry. “Yes it really, really would,” he says between the kisses he trails across Zayn’s jaw, licking at his cheekbones and up to his ear. Once he gets there, he gives his hips a long, slow roll, and flicks out his tongue to trace Zayn’s ear. He can feel Zayn shiver beneath him. “Now,” Harry whispers, trying to make his voice deep and rumbly like that one guy he hooked up with last year in Perth said was pure sex, “I think we made plans for when I got back.”

“Oh did we?” Zayn asks, chuckling. But his hands are sliding down Harry’s side to his ass, and he pulls him closer, into him so their bare chests are rubbing against each other and Harry’s biting back moans at the way his nipples feel sliding against Zayn’s skin. “Then why are you wearing so many clothes?”

“’Cause you spent last night putting them on,” Harry retorts. It’s a hard dilemma, really, because he wants all the clothes off right now, but he also doesn’t want to move away from Zayn long enough to do that, because it’s been ten days since he touched Zayn and maybe it’s the reason why he didn’t sleep in LA, that he couldn’t have gone to him if he really had to, that he was an ocean away from Harry. 

“Wanted your full attention when we did this,” Zayn shoots back. He takes a step forward, forcing Harry back, then keeps going so Harry is stumbling and laughing as Zayn licks into his lips, until they both fall onto the bed, Harry on his back and Zayn on top of him. He really is way too light, because it doesn’t hurt at all, but there’s still the feeling of a solid weight pinning him down that Harry hasn’t had in way too long and it’s Zayn so it’s a thousand times better. 

Zayn sits back on his heels, one knee on either side of Harry’s hips, and grins. There’s mischief in the grin, a glint of laughter that makes Harry squirm beneath him, but there’s something dark and wild there too, and that’s the thing that makes Harry’s heart skip a beat. 

“Do I have your full attention?” he asks, and runs a finger down Harry’s sternum, right over the center of the moth. 

Harry nods. “But not for long, so you should probably get on with it before—”

Zayn shuts him up with a kiss, long and slow and full of teeth and tongue, until Harry’s whining into his mouth. Then he sits back up, and there’s a smug smile on his face. “You were saying?” 

“Zayn!” It feels like all he says in this bed sometimes, a plea and a curse and a complaint and a prayer all at once. 

Zayn just laughs, but as he looks at Harry he’s got that dark-eyed look that Harry knows means he’s turned on too, that he wants to lick every part of Harry and devour it, and not just the skin and muscles, but that he sees everything beneath and wants to devour it too. “Pants off,” he orders, a little gruffly, and climbs off of Harry to shuck his own sweats onto the floor. Harry throws his next to Zayn’s, then splays out on the bed and does his best to smile seductively. It’s a little hard when Zayn’s standing over the bed, stark naked, all skin and tattoos and muscles and cheekbones, all the places Harry hasn’t touched for days, all the places he wants to mark with his teeth and tongue and nails and paint HARRY’S all over just so every time anyone else touches him they know he was there, if not first then most, most importantly, most everythingly. 

So instead he reaches out, grabs Zayn’s wrists, and pulls, so Zayn is forced to come onto the bed, to straddle Harry and come close enough for him to kiss, to start with his mouth then start licking his way down his neck so Zayn’s pulse is fluttering beneath his fingers and he’s making little groaning noises and his hips are starting to jerk like he can’t control it. Like Harry’s making him lose control, like he loves the sloppy kisses and the way Harry’s limbs sprawl every which way even as he trying to get a good grip on Zayn’s ass.

“Fuck, Harry, let me up—I need to get—” It’s bitten off, cut off by a moan as Harry gets his hand around Zayn’s dick and starts to stroke it, but that’s also a very good point so Harry does let him go, which only gets a choked off grunt. Honestly, some people. 

Zayn rolls off Harry to get the lube and a condom from the nightstand, and he hesitates a second before getting back on top. “You sure—”

“Fucking yes, Zayn,” Harry whines. He’s hard just with the thought of it, with the idea of Zayn’s scruff rubbing against his thighs and his body over Harry’s. “Please.”

That gets a grin out of Zayn, and it sends a thrill down Harry’s spine because it’s the same almost-smirk that he had that time before Harry left. “Always so polite, aren’t you?” he drawls, and opens the lube to slick it over his fingers. 

“My mum raised me right,” Harry agrees. He’s got a hand around his own cock and is pulling at it lazily, because Zayn’s looking at him with hooded eyes and his dick is bobbing against his stomach and it’s going to be in Harry soon and it’s kind of killing him in the best way possible. 

“Think I could get you to beg for it?” Zayn continues, like Harry hadn’t even spoken. He’s still just looking, like he’s thinking of all the ways he could have Harry. 

“You already have.”

“Not for my cock, though.” He bites at his lip. “That’d be new.”

“I’ll beg, yeah, just do it already.” 

“Impatient, always.” Zayn laughs, then nods, as if he’s deciding something. “Flip over.” 

Harry thinks for a second about disagreeing, because he wants to see Zayn’s face as he comes apart, but it has been a while and if it’ll get Zayn inside him faster he’ll do anything, so he rolls onto his stomach and spreads his legs, turning his head so he can almost see Zayn out of the corner of his eye. He feels him, though, feels the bed dip as Zayn kneels between his legs. Feels his hand reach out and stroke all the way down Harry’s spine. His dick is trapped beneath him, rubbing against the roughness of the blankets, and he squirms to get more pressure, to get something, until Zayn’s hand presses against his back so he can’t move. 

“Stay still, popstar,” Zayn murmurs, and then his lips are on the inside of Harry’s thigh and the mere touch is enough to get Harry’s hips to buck, because it’s the closest Zayn’s lips have been to his dick ever. “I said, still.”

“Then fucking fuck me already,” Harry retorts, then “oh,” as Zayn slides a finger into him. He’d forgotten the weirdness of the feeling, at first, how unnatural it feels until Zayn crooks his fingers and then “Oh,” he repeats, and presses back as Zayn slides the finger out then in again, like a promise. “Shit, yes, come on, more, I can do more.”

But Zayn takes his time, his finger moving in him as he bites his way up Harry’s back, until he can hear Zayn’s breath in his ear like it’s a secret even though no one else is here. It’s only then, when Zayn’s tongue flicks out against his ear and makes him shiver, that Zayn adds another finger, stretching him open in the best kind of hurt and Harry moans with it and rocks back into Zayn’s fingers, trying to get more. 

‘Fuck, you want it, don’t you,” Zayn growls into Harry’s ear, as his fingers scissor inside Harry and Harry’s breathless with it, “How long have you wanted this for?”

He pauses, and Harry manages to gasp out, “Forever, ages, Zayn, please God,” when Zayn crooks his finger and hits his prostate. 

“Been thinking about his?” Zayn bites at his ear, the pain a delicious contrast to the heat of his skin, “Were you thinking about me fucking you while you were talking to all those pretty celebrities, Harry?”

“Yes, fuck, yes, always—”

“Thinking about me filling you up, about what I would do to you—”

Harry’s nearly sobbing with the growl of Zayn’s voice, but he rasps out, “Yeah, I was, another come on Zayn I can take more please—”

And Zayn does, adding another finger the next time he pushes his fingers in, and it’s been a while since Harry’s been fucked but he’s so, so gentle, somehow, even as his voice is rough and dark, “Thinking about where, maybe, if I were there, if I’d have fucked you against the stage or in your hotel room or maybe even in a green room, with everyone who mattered outside—”

“ _Please_ , Zayn—”

“Just taken you right there, so you’d be limping all day, remembering me every time you take a step, every time it hurt—”

“Zayn come on just do it—”

And then his fingers are gone, and his weight is off Harry’s back for a second, and the loss of it, the loss of him, almost hurts, until it’s back, his hand on Harry’s hip, and he can feel the edge of his dick against his ass. He shoves in fast, fast enough that Harry yelps and Zayn moans and his fingers convulse against Harry’s skin, hard enough that they might bruise, that Harry hopes they bruise. But then Zayn pauses, as Harry bites his lip and swallows and tries to remember the pleasure of mere minutes before. 

“You’re so tight,” Zayn murmurs, and it’s less dirty talk and more confusion, or maybe wonder. 

“Yeah, ‘s been a while.” He doesn’t know why Zayn’s surprised, they haven’t been doing this so of course it’s been a while, but the pain is starting to settle and he shifts back experimentally as Zayn runs a hand over his shoulders. 

“Oh.” And again, it sounds like confusion. Then, “You okay?” He shifts, leaning forward a little so he can kiss at Harry’s shoulder, and it changes the angle in all the right ways so, 

“Yeah. Yeah, please.” 

This time, Zayn doesn’t laugh, just pulls out and thrusts into him again, slowly at first then getting faster until it’s rough and frantic and Harry’s hips are rising off the bed in time to meet him, and Zayn’s whispering things in his ear again but now they’re things like, “Fuck Styles you’re gorgeous” and “beautiful” and “so tight” intercut with groans, and it’s like nothing else, Zayn filling him, Zayn engulfing him so there’s nothing in the world but Zayn, nothing ever but Zayn and him and the heat between them, the slap of their skin and the rub of the sheets against Harry’s cock and Zayn’s cock pressing against his prostate until Zayn’s choking off, “Fuck, Harry, I’m gonna—” and he comes before he can finish the sentence, but in time for Harry to crane his head back even more, so he can see Zayn coming apart, his head thrown back and his eyes scrunched shut and every muscle tight in him, and he shoves a hand beneath him as Zayn collapses onto his back and finishes himself off to Zayn’s harsh breath in his ear. 

Zayn cleans him up after, eases out of him and rolls him back over and kisses him long and slow and deep, his hand on Harry’s face like he’s fragile, like he’s on the edge of breaking. Harry’s not quite sure why, because if there’s pain it’s the good sort, the sort that will remind him of this tomorrow when he’s back in London, that will remind him he has this, even if it’s far away. But he’s not going to say no to Zayn mopping the come off of him with a washcloth so gently, to Zayn making him tea and bringing it to him in bed, then sitting there next to him as he drinks it, watching him like a hawk. It makes Harry wonder how much more he can get away with, while Zayn is looking at him like that. Not like he wants him, not like he’s amused by him, but like he cares about him. 

“I was thinking,” he says, slowly, and doesn’t object when Zayn pulls at his hands to take a sip from the mug of tea without bothering to take it from Harry, “If I, like, had a way to get in here without you being here, it might be really convenient. So I wouldn’t have to wait outside, or anything, and then I could chill in here if you have to get things done and we wouldn’t have to worry about me being seen and I could clean up sometimes and—”

“Are you asking for a key?” Zayn asks. His hands tighten around Harry’s and the mug, enough that Harry tries to hide his wince. 

“Yeah? I mean, it would be simpler, and…” he trails off at the look in Zayn’s eyes. It’s not something he understands, it’s sad and happy all at once, and confused too. “Zayn?”

He feels as much as sees Zayn’s breath. “Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’ll make a copy.” Zayn swallows, and lets go of Harry’s hands to put his on his knees. He’s still got that weird look in his eyes, and he’s biting at his lip like he’s nervous. Harry grins happily into the mug, finishes it off in a gulp, then puts it down and pushes Zayn back into the bed, kissing at him and biting at his neck until Zayn’s giggling and swearing and he’s just got laughter in his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short (but plenty eventful!) chapter today, so the next one will probably go up on Sunday. 
> 
> Keep talking to me in comments and tumblr! I love talking about my fics. And Zarry.

Sure enough, Zayn hands him two keys the next time he leaves, one for outside and one for inside, he explains, like Harry wouldn’t know. Harry stares at them for most of the ride back, jingling on his keychain with all the others, which only really becomes a problem when he forgets he’s driving as well and starts drifting into other lanes. But—they’re keys. They’re entry into Zayn’s life, like he can come and go as he pleases. Like Zayn has nothing to hide from him, like there’s no way he could come back and find Zayn fucking someone else against the counter, or lounging with someone else on the bed, trading secrets. Like he has permission now to look, to search out all the little pockets of Zayn he’s been trying to find since he first saw him.

He spends days—well, day, because that’s as long as he has to stay away—trying to decide what he should do the first time he’s waiting when Zayn comes home. He could make dinner, or, well, have dinner ready on the table. He could clean up the place so Harry isn’t in danger of tripping every time he moves in it. He could be waiting naked on the bed, already opened up and ready for Zayn.

 That last idea preoccupies him so much that he only realizes he’s telling a story on live television when he’s about halfway through and there’s no way to stop. It’s something about recording his new album, that time when a girl tried to sneak in for a preview and ended up stuck halfway through the bathroom window, and it’s a really funny story, Zayn was in hysterics when he heard it, but he’s not supposed to tell stories on air and Management’s going to be so mad at him and when he glances to the side the PR person is motioning for him to cut off and Liam is giving him tolerant but chiding eyeroll and the interviewer eyebrows are raising just the littlest amount, because he’s never talked this much on air for years, probably, but—he thinks of the way Zayn smiles at him when he’s going on like this, trying to tell him about the party he went to the night before with Grimmy, fond and amused, like it’s as charming as when he smirks and banters and flirts. He finishes the story.

The interviewer gives a little chuckle when he’s finally done. “How interesting,” she says, and Harry thinks she’s probably lying but it’s nice of her to say, so he gives her his most charming, a little bit sheepish grin, and then she’s smiling for real. “Did that affect your singing that day?”

The PR person is glaring when he finally gets off stage, but Liam smiles at him and ushers him away, waving of the rep with responsible sounding words that Harry’s pretty sure are magic. “That was nice,” he says, as they get into the car.

“Hm?” Harry’s still trying to decide what Zayn would do if Harry was naked when he walked in. He doesn’t seem like the type to just jump him, but Harry can always hope. Maybe he could do something romantic, like rose petals or whatever. But knowing Zayn, they’d just stay there for ages and rot and it would be pretty symbolically depressing.

“I’ve not seen you that animated in an interview for years.” He leans over to bump his shoulder companionably against Harry’s, and Harry jolts back to the present to look into Liam’s warm, friendly eyes. “It was nice.”

“I’m animated in interviews!” Harry protests, crossing his arms across his chest. He is. He is awesome at being interviewed, everyone knows that. There is no presenter he can’t charm.

“Yeah, but you’re usually not…” Liam presses his lips together. He’s not so good at the words thing, usually. As Harry isn’t always if he’s not really trying, he’s okay with it. “So you.”

“’m always me.” But Harry does know what he means, knows he made a choice in that room not to cut himself off and say something cheeky and flirty and make people forget the awkward rambling boy. He hopes Zayn was watching.

Everyone else was, apparently, because Nick laughs at him for it when they go out that night (admittedly, more because he chose that story rather than that he told it at all), and all of that crowd teases him for a few minutes before they’re all distracted by the booze and strobe club lights, and Louis sends a few mocking texts. It’s a little weird, actually, how many of his friends are shocked by him talking on TV.

But then there’s the show that night, and he’s well distracted. There’s nothing, nothing like playing a show. Like singing your heart out and hearing it reflected back in a thousand thousand yells, of girls screaming his name and the signs and the sheer energy in the stadium, like electricity is buzzing through his veins rather than blood. And this, this is why he loves what he does, why he will listen to PR about interviews and leave Zayn in his garage and take all the teasing, because this is the only place he’s ever really, truly felt like himself.

\---

He tumbles into bed hours after the show, still too buzzed to go to sleep even after hours of partying. He’s never needed drugs, needed the coke or ex that goes around, that sucked Louis in at the beginning, because this is better than any drug. It would be better, of course, if Zayn were here too, if he could have tumbled into Zayn rather than just the thought of him, had bitten all this vibrating need into his skin, taken him into his mouth until he wanted as much as Harry, until he was burning with it too, with everything. Could have fucked all the energy out of Harry into Zayn, or maybe have Zayn fuck him into the bed until he remembered what it was to settle, to sleep. He wanks off to that hard and fast, to the thought of Zayn holding him down on this bed and licking every inch of him from head to toe then back up between his legs, holding him down as he filled Harry up so much he couldn’t have room for anything but him. It’s not what Harry wants, not nearly enough, but it gets him to sleep.

He sleeps like the dead for seven hours, wakes up, hits the gym, and heads to Zayn’s.

In the end, he decides on being naked. Because he likes being naked around Zayn, Zayn likes him being naked around Zayn, being naked around Zayn tends to lead to awesome sex, so everyone wins. And if he holds his breath a little when he first unlocks the door, and does a little happy dance as he lets himself into the flat, well, that is between him and the doorknob. He’s pretty sure he had dignity, once. He doesn’t miss it.

And it works, too, although possibly Harry’s jumping on Zayn the minute he walked through the door probably helped as well. But really, he didn’t know how else he was expected to respond to Zayn coming in all sweaty from work, with motor oil on his cheeks and what Harry suspected was specks of red paint on his hands. Clearly Harry’s only choice was to rip the Led Zepplin shirt off of him and stick his hands down his pants. Zayn wasn’t objecting.

Somehow, it ends up with them cuddled up together on the bed, Zayn leaning against the headboard and Harry’s head in his lap. Harry’s feeling pretty satisfied, all around. Both with his plan and with orgasms. Even if for some reason they’re wearing clothes again.

“If you could do anything in the world right now, what would you want to do?” Harry asks idly. Or, well, not so idly, because part two of his sneaky plan is to steal Zayn away on some lovely vacation and never let him leave. Or find a way to make all his dreams come true. But more or less idly.

Zayn shrugs. “Dunno. You?”

“That an answer or a question?” Harry asks, with a cheeky grin, and gets a tug on his hair in response that makes him whine in irritation. He is very funny. He never quite gets why people don’t realize this. “I’d be doing this,” he answers, more seriously, “I mean, the whole popstar thing. ‘s what I’ve always wanted. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted. Or, no, like, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted? Like, it encapsulates all of it?”

“Really?” Zayn scrunches his nose up in a confused face that looks very odd from this angle, but somehow still inhumanly pretty. If Harry weren’t incredibly unwilling to move at the moment, he would definitely have to kiss it. “You love it that much? All the fame, and the screaming, and the paparazzi, and everything?”

“Yeah.” It’s the only answer. “I mean, the paparazzi get annoying sometimes, and sometimes the screaming gives me a headache, but usually I’m the luckiest person in the world.” He shrugs too, which rubs his back against the skin of Zayn’s thigh, and reaches over to poke at his knee. “What about you? Dunno doesn’t count.”

“But I don’t know,” Zayn says, and it sounds a little like a confession, like he’s unsure about it. “This is good enough for now, I guess.”

“But, anything.” With a great sigh—Zayn should appreciate the effort he goes through for him—Harry heaves himself off of Zayn’s lap to sit up, bringing his knees up to his chin. “Anything in the whole wide world. Shining, shimmering, splendid, all that. What would it be? C’mon,” he continues, when Zayn still looks like he’s not going to answer, “Just play the game. Didn’t you ever do this as a kid? Or, like, in uni? Isn’t this what you do in uni? Louis says it is.”

Zayn presses his lips together, and does that nervous habit thing he does where he presses on the side of his hand, but then lets a long breath of air out from between them. “I dunno. I mean, art, I guess? Like, in London, probably, or New York. Or Paris, maybe. Somewhere with a big art scene. Maybe Berlin, that’s the new place. But someplace I could, like, have shows and have people come and look and really think about it, you know?”

Harry bites at his own lip, and looks down. “I never know what to think about art,” he admits. “Like, I can make up stuff, but usually, I dunno, how am I supposed to tell?”

“But that’s the thing about art!” Zayn’s back is straight, now, and Harry almost has to dodge a hand he waves to make his point. His eyes are sparkling, turned up at the corners. Harry’s never really seen this expression, but it looks a little like the boy in the photos on the wall, of him with his sisters as a teenager. “You aren’t. Like, it doesn’t matter what I mean when I do it, all that matters is how it makes you feel, and there are a thousand different interpretations and they’re all right. Like, there’s no right answer, and I love that, yeah? You can talk about it and discuss it and no one has to be right or wrong, the discussion’s just the whole point. ‘s like books, like that. Or music.” He nudges at Harry’s leg with his knee, and grins at him. It’s the lightest Harry’s ever seen him, and he doesn’t have a choice, really. He has to lean over and kiss him, to see if he tastes different when he’s glowing like this.

He doesn’t, though his hand lands on Harry’s waist and he kisses back easily enough, even moaning slightly when Harry’s tongue licks at the roof of his mouth. But his eyes are very wide and dark and have just that littlest bit of sparkle left in them when Harry pulls back. “What was that for?”

“You’re beautiful,” Harry answers. It’s the only word he knows that encompasses everything Zayn is, beautiful from the skin down into his bones, or whatever makes him light up like that. Even if the light is fading back into his skin, the crinkles at his eyes going flat. But his tongue darts out to wet his lips, Harry’s eyes following the motion almost involuntarily. It’s not his fault Zayn’s tongue is as pretty as the rest of him.

“Oh am I?” Zayn asks, teasing a little as he leans back again, the motion a clear invitation. “And here I was thinking you were here for my brains.”

“Yeah, those too,” Harry agrees, and swings a leg over Zayn so he’s straddling his thighs and can brace himself on the headboard. “You’re beautiful everywhere.”

“And you have the worst lines,” Zayn retorts, with a quick, coy glance up at him through his eyelashes. “Honestly, I don’t know why I let you near me.”

“’s my charm, obviously. And my body. And my—oh, right!” He nearly bangs his head against the wall, because how could he forget? But instead he just climbs off of Zayn, ignores his pouty eye roll, and goes over to the table where he dropped his bag (not a murse, no matter what Louis says. It’s a satchel. And it’s cool), and digs into it until he finds the package he’s looking for. Then he stands up and throws it onto the bed—he was trying for Zayn’s lap, but gets the edge; it’s close enough—for Zayn to open. “Here. Got you something.”

Zayn tilts his head to the side as he looks at it, his eyebrows coming together.

“Come on, open it!” Harry urges, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He never understood the kids who didn’t sneak downstairs on Christmas morning to open presents at the crack of dawn. Zayn probably waited until his whole family was awake and had breakfast, he thinks, with a fond internal shake of his head. It certainly takes him long enough to open the parcel, undoing the wrapping paper with slow, deliberate movements, then drawing out what’s inside.

“It’s a coat!” Harry announces, the instant he’s looked at it long enough to maybe figure it out. “See? Because I noticed your other one—not the leather, the one that isn’t leather—is kind of wearing out and I saw this and I thought of you and do you like it?” He wants Zayn to like it. He needs Zayn to like it and wear it all the time and think of Harry every time he wears it like Harry is constantly hugging him and never look at anyone else while he’s wearing it.

“It’s lovely, Harry.” But Zayn isn’t smiling as he shakes out the coat. It’s a really nice jacket, too, a peacoat in so deep a green that it’s almost black; Nick approved of it when he was buying it, even if he was disappointed it wasn’t for Harry, because he never approves of how Harry dresses. Zayn gets out of the bed so he can hold it up, see how it’ll fall to his knees and button up his chest and how it’ll make his shoulders look even broader and his hips even narrower than they already are, and Harry’s already imagining blowing him in it, so he’ll really never be able to think of anyone else while in it, when he looks at Zayn’s face.

“Don’t you like it?” he demands.

“I said, it’s lovely,” Zayn repeats. His fingers are clenched around the collar, his knuckles getting white. “Really. Beautiful.”

He doesn’t sound like he means it. “So put it on!” Harry insists. He wants Zayn in it. Wants Zayn to smile at him like he smiled at his sister because Harry got him this beautiful thing.

But Zayn just closes his eyes. “I’d rather not, right now. Thanks.”

“Why not?” Harry demands, but Zayn’s already turned around to hang it up. Once that’s done, he keeps his back towards Harry, one hand braced on the edge of the closet. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing.” His voice scratches, a little, but less with the sexy hoarseness that makes Harry want to press himself against him and push him into the wall—though he wants to do that, he always wants to do that—and more like something hurts. “Just—don’t buy me anything else, okay?”

“Why not?” Harry asks again. He likes buying things for people. People like him buying things for them. It’s not like one jacket exactly broke the bank.

“Because—” Zayn sighs, and Harry can see his shoulders deflate, not like he’s relaxing, but like he lost something. “Just, don’t, yeah?” He turns around, and he’s got that face on, the worst one, the one that Harry can’t read, that looks at Harry like a stranger.

“No!” Harry resists the urge to stomp. “Why not, Zayn? I spend a lot of time here, it only makes sense I can get dinner sometimes or get you stuff! I have a damn key, Zayn!”

“I know,” Zayn shoots back, his fists clenching a little. He’s mad. So’s Harry, actually. Which is weird, because he doesn’t get mad, not usually, but he is. He tried to do something nice for Zayn, like when Zayn bought him sweatpants, and Zayn gets angry? He doesn’t understand, and he’s angry about that, too. What did he do wrong? “Bloody hell, I know! I just don’t like to be reminded, okay?”

“Reminded of what? That I’m here?”

“That—” Zayn cuts himself off, and Harry can actually see him calm himself down, draw back into himself. He stops yelling, but his voice is that whipcord thin, cool sort of voice he used when he told off Harry that first time. It hurts worse than the yelling. “I don’t need your gifts, popstar.” Harry scowls at that, tries not to wince. Not at the sentiment, but that’s Zayn’s pet name for him, it’s his name, and Harry loves it, the way he says it, mocking and fond. Not like this, like it’s a curse, like it’s calling someone a bastard or a bitch or worse.

“I never said you did!” Harry insists. He just doesn’t get it. “I was trying to be nice. When you bought me stuff it was cute! I gave you a blowjob as thanks!”

“So this was you trying to get a blow job?”

“What? No.” That’s not what he said. That’s not what he meant. He might have dreams about it, have thought about it since the first time he laid eyes on Zayn and his pink lips and pictured him looking up at Harry from beneath those eyelashes, Harry’s come striped across his ridiculous cheekbones, but Zayn doesn’t and he respects that. Mostly. Not enough to try to bribe him otherwise. “I just—why are you so angry?” He can feel tears stinging in his eyes. “What did I do?”

Zayn runs a frustrated hand back through his hair, and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they’re just—blank. “Nothing, Harry. You didn’t do anything. This one’s on me. I’ve got too good at denial, I guess.”

“Denial?” Harry asks, but Zayn’s already brushing past him, their shoulders bumping painfully as he passes. “Where are you going?”

“For a ride,” Zayn says, grabbing his beat up old jacket off the ground to shrug it over his shoulders. He actually looks like a biker now, with his eyes narrowed and his jaw set. Harry might have been a little afraid of him, meeting him in a dark alley. “I need to be alone.”

He doesn’t give Harry time to reply before he’s gone, the door slamming behind him. Harry runs over to the window in time to see him throw himself onto his bike and speed away in a roar of an engine.

Harry watches him go until he’s out of sight. Then, slowly, he gathers up his things, and leaves. He thinks Zayn won’t want him here when he gets back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end! Next chapter should be up Wednesday, probably. I'm loving all the feedback! Totally keep talking to me!

“I just don’t get it,” Harry moans, and leans over to rest his head against Nick’s shoulder. Nick is actually a shit person to cuddle with, all bones and sharp lines, but he’s drunk enough right now that he lets Harry cry into his shoulder and pets his hair even though Harry knows he’s thinking about how ridiculous he looks. “What did I do?”

“Hell if I know, mate,” Nick retorts, and uses his other hand to gesture at the bartender for another beer.

“It was just a coat!” Harry glares at his own reflection across the bar. He should probably be quieter about this, because people can probably hear him crying about boyfriend issues and then they’ll all be asking about his boyfriend and saying all these things Harry can’t answer without lying. “And a nice coat! You saw it! Wouldn’t you like it if I had given you that coat?”

“I would have let you do filthy things with my body for that coat,” Nick agrees easily, and hands Harry something neon blue in a Collins glass. Harry lifts his head off of Nick to sip at it mournfully.

“Why couldn’t I want you, then?”

“I ask myself that every day.” Harry sticks his tongue out. But in a sad way. His life would be so much easier if he could just be in love with Grimmy, but except for some ill-fated drunken fumbles that were good enough, but ended with both of them waking up naked on a futon and laughing their asses off, and the occasional times when Nick’s looking particularly fit and Harry feels the need to reward him with a kiss, there’s nothing. Not like the need he has every time he’s around Zayn to be touching him, to just always be nearer to him.

He groans again, and takes another sip. It’s kind of disgusting. It tastes sort of like how Harry feels. It is also very much not his first drink. “I wanna go home,” he mutters. “I wanna see him. I wanna blow him.”

“You’ve gotten so boring since you got a boyfriend,” Nick drawls, but he ruffles Harry’s hair fondly.

“If I still have one,” Harry retorts. It leaves a sour taste in his stomach that he doesn’t think is just from the alcohol. He still has one. He has to still have one. Has to has to has to. He will camp out in front of Zayn’s shop. He will declare to the world that Zayn is his boyfriend and then even though Zayn’d be mad and probably never speak to him he’d have to at least pretend so his sister would be happy. He’ll sit in Zayn’s apartment and never ever leave and he’ll move his whole production crew in there. He’ll—he doesn’t know what. He’ll slay dragons. He’s not sure how it would help, or where he would find a dragon, but he’d do it.

“Oh, Harry. Harry Harry Harry. Harry Styles.” Harry glances over. Nick is laughing at him. That’s no fair. It’s part of the best friend code, isn’t it? That you don’t laugh at someone with boy troubles. Unless they’re Nick, because it’s hysterical when Nick is gone for someone.

“Tha’s my name,” Harry agrees.

“The Harry Styles,” Nick continues, ignoring him. “Why are you still here?”

“Because you asked me to come out?” Or he had cried on Liam so much that Liam had called Nick to do something with him. Harry wasn’t entirely clear on the details. He had already been pretty drunk.

“Not what I meant, Styles,” Nick shakes his head, and waves down the bartender for another. “Why aren’t you disappearing to wherever you go with this mystery boy of yours—who, by the way, I’m fair convinced is a troll, way you refuse to let me meet him—”

“He’s just too pretty for you.”

“Oh, afraid of the competition. I get it. Anyway—why aren’t you throwing your infamous Styles charm at him until he stops being mad?”

“He doesn’t fall for my charm.”

“Oh, I like him even more.” He would, too, Harry thinks. Nick would love Zayn. Would probably try to steal him, because he was pretty and snarky and sensible and kind and why wouldn’t everyone love him? “Then you could apologize.”

“But I don’t know what I did!”

“Have you learned nothing?” Nick tugs on one of Harry’s curls. “In a relationship, that doesn’t matter. Apology, then sex. It’ll fix everything.”

Nick, Harry decides into the blue drink that doesn’t taste as bad as all that, really, is probably pretty wise. Or something.

\---

He lets Nick pour him into bed, but when he wakes up he’s only sort of hungover and he has a plan. He rolls out of bed, goes to the gym, showers and does his hair, decides he doesn’t like his hair done and neither does Zayn so he dunks it in water and lets it dry loose this time, pulls on his favorite jeans and a white band t-shirt, and sneaks out the door.

Harry makes it Zayn’s flat by around four, which means he’s probably awake and getting started for the day. Sure enough, his bike is outside the flat, and Harry thinks he can see movement behind the curtains. It’s a good thing none of the paparazzi ever bother following him outside London, he thinks. They could get a good shot from here.

He squints at the front door for a few minutes, then finally settles on letting himself in. He does knock on Zayn’s door, though, because he’s not entirely sure if Zayn meant for him to leave the key or not.

Zayn opens the door with a yawn. He’s still sleepy-soft, all eyes and skin and messy hair, but he sharpens a little when he sees Harry. “Harry?” he asks, and covers his mouth with another yawn.

“Yeah.” Harry tries for a grin, second guesses it, and ends up in something that he’s not even sure how to classify it. “Can I—can I come in?”

“’course.” Zayn steps aside, and Harry comes inside quickly, before Zayn can take it back. He doesn’t seem mad anymore, but it’s only been two days and he’s never seen Zayn really mad before so he doesn’t know how long it lasts and what if he’s just pretending so he can break Harry’s heart in private? “Could have let yourself in and let me sleep, though.”

“Could I?” Harry asks, shooting Zayn a sidelong look.

At that, Zayn blinks away a little bit more sleep, his shoulders rolling back beneath his t-shirt, his chin coming back. He sweeps his hair out of his face with one hand. Harry wants to do that. Harry wants to go over and cover his face with kisses before he remembers he was mad and push his hair out of his face and bury his head in it. But instead, he just stands a little awkwardly, trying not to touch anything.

But when Zayn doesn’t talk for a long, long, minute, Harry starts talking. He can’t help it. He’s not good at silences. “I just, I know you were mad, and you kicked me out, so I didn’t want to presume or anything but you shouldn’t be mad and I’m sorry for whatever I did I’m so sorry and I’ll do whatever you want to make it up to you just don’t be mad?”

He’s performed in front of millions of people. He’s performed in front of Simon Cowell. He’s never felt as uncomfortable beneath someone else’s gaze as he does then, with Zayn’s eyes fixed on him.

Then Zayn sighs, and his lips quirk upwards. “’m not mad anymore, Harry.”

“You’re not!” Harry can feel himself light up from the inside out.

“Nah. Not really. I just—I get mad and I need time to cool down, you know?” Harry doesn’t, really, because when he gets mad he needs to talk it out with other people or he’ll explode, but he still nods vigorously. “Just—don’t buy me things, okay?”

“How about paying for takeaway sometimes?” Zayn gives him a look, but Harry sticks his jaw out. He doesn’t want to mooch. He knows Zayn doesn’t make that much. And it’s not like he’s not got money to spare. “I eat half of it anyway.”

Again that long, piercing look, but finally Zayn nods. “Fine. Maybe. But nothing expensive.”

“No presents, got it. How about birthdays?” Because he can, because he thinks Zayn won’t push him away, he bounds across the room to Zayn, grabs at Zayn’s hips. “Christmas? Maybe Valentine’s Day? Can I do those presents?”

“We’ll see,” Zayn retorts, but he’s chuckling, and his hands are warm as he links them behind Harry’s neck. “Now I think there was something said about ‘anything I wanted’.”

Harry smirks as dirtily as he knows how, which, he thinks, is pretty damn filthy. And Zayn’s definitely awake now, all of him, his eyes glinting and his lips curving in a smile that’s almost predatory and goes right to Harry’s dick. So Harry leans in, careful to press against Zayn in every spot he can, and his tongue flicks out to lick Zayn’s ear as he purrs, “What did you have in mind?”

“Hmmm.” Harry can almost feel Zayn’s throat vibrating. “So many choices.”

“You should fuck me,” Harry suggests immediately, and takes a step back so he’s pulling Zayn with him towards the bed. “Or, no, we do that a lot. You should fuck me against the wall. Or the table? I could give you a blow job against the counter, but that seems unsanitary. We should take a motorcycle ride, and then you could fuck me. Or I could blow you on the motorcycle. Or we could go to the garage and you could fuck me there. Or against my car.”

“You really have a thing for me and automobiles, don’t you?” Zayn chuckles. Now he’s the one walking them towards the bed, slow but purposeful, keeping them pressed against each other. 

Harry leans back so he can gape properly at Zayn. “Have you seen you in mechanic mode? It’s hot as hell. Not that you aren’t usually. It’s even hotter than hell?” He shakes his head, because Zayn still isn’t doing anything special other than moving him towards the bed. Which he’s all for, but he wants proper kinky apology sex. “Anyway, the motorcycle, that should be a thing. Or you could fuck me against your graffiti wall, is that hot? It feels like it would be hot. Or we could get chocolate sauce and pour it all over you and I could lick it off.” Now there’s an image, Zayn all spread out and delicious looking and with chocolate so actually delicious, all for Harry to eat. He giggles a little to himself at the pun. “Or—” he cuts himself off when his knees knock against the bed, because this isn’t about him and his many, many, many fantasies. That he may possibly have a list of in his notebook. He’ll have to add the chocolate sauce on to that. “But this is for you. What do you want?”

Zayn’s been laughing, a little, at Harry’s list, but now he bites at his lip and glances down. It’s more than a little adorable. Harry wants to soothe the teeth marks with his tongue. Wants to make him look all confident and predatory again. “I was thinking…you liked it, when we…” 

“Yes,” Harry answers before he can clarify. That makes Zayn look up again. 

“I didn’t say what I meant.”

“Doesn’t matter, the answer’s still yes.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes, but his lips are curving into a smile again even though he’s still chewing at his lip. “I meant when I, like, held you down and shit.”

“Oh. Yeah. I liked that.” Harry squirms a little, grinding his hips against Zayn’s in memory. “Can we do that again?” 

“Well, I was thinking—maybe—” He trails off again, and Harry huffs out an annoyed breath. He just really wants to be touching more of Zayn. 

“Babe, I’ll try anything twice. More than that with you.”

“Twice?” 

“Got to see if I was right the first time.” Harry shrugs. “Come on, what do you want? Cause I’ve got more suggestions if you need them.”

Zayn laughs again, but he pulls away from Harry, which is definitely a net loss. He even turns his back on Harry, goes over to the closet, which is too far away for Harry to touch and thus manifestly not okay. 

“Zayn,” Harry whines. He collapses backwards on the bed, then scoots backwards so he can arrange himself provocatively over the blankets. “Come ravish me.” 

“Ravish? Been reading romances again?” Zayn turns around while Harry is playing with the buttons on his shirt. He could take it off, and then be more naked, which is always good. But he likes it when Zayn undresses him too, when he rips his clothes off like he can’t wait or when he eases them off like he’s unwrapping a present. 

Then he sees what Zayn’s holding, and his fingers still. “Bandanas?” he grins slyly. “You gonna tie me down?”

“If that’s what it takes.” And, oh, if that doesn’t go straight to Harry’s dick. But Zayn just heads over to the bed, and then crawls on top of it until he’s straddling Harry, basically in his lap, finally, finally close enough to touch. So Harry does, grabs his hips then lets his hands stray back to his ass. Zayn smirks, grinds back and down into his hands so Harry keens a little because they are not touching enough god damn it. 

But Zayn just leans over and reaches towards Harry’s head. Harry’s thinking maybe he wants a blowjob at a weird angle when cloth slips around his head and he can’t see anything. He gives a sharp, panicked inhale—but then Zayn’s hands are on his cheeks, just holding him there soothingly. “This okay?” he asks, quietly. Almost tenderly, Harry thinks. Hopes. He doesn’t know. “I’ve tried it before and it can be really good, but if you don’t—”

“Yes.” Harry says again, immediately. Both because yes, hot, it’s already good, like cutting off his sight means he can feel more, the weight of Zayn over his thighs, his fingertips, rough against Harry’s skin. And, “Before?”

“Yeah, with Perrie.”

“Perrie?” 

“Ex.”

“Oh.” Harry can’t keep the pout from his voice. If he could see, he’d grab Zayn, pull him up for a kiss, something to burn all thoughts of this ex who probably had gentle curves and a sweet laugh and sharp wit that Harry can’t have, but he can’t, so he just squeezes Zayn’s ass. Zayn chuckles, low and deep in his throat, and Harry can’t help but thrill to the sound. 

“I have had sex before, you know.”

“I know that.” He does. He tries not to, but he does. “Want to kiss you now.” 

“Still bossy,” Zayn hums, but then his lips are right there, over Harry’s, and Harry can finally bite at his lip and run his tongue over where he had been chewing and he can’t see it but he usually closes his eyes for the really good Zayn kisses anyway, so it’s not like anything’s different. But then Zayn’s pulling away and it’s like he’s disappeared and Harry whines out a breath. 

“Come back.”

“We’re going to have to do something about that bossiness.” And then Zayn’s fingers are on his chest, pulling open his shirt, and Harry lets him take it off because yes, more skin, he approves of more skin always especially when it means more places for Zayn to look at. He lets go of Zayn’s ass, sits up a little but to help him take the shirt off—but then Zayn doesn’t let go of his right hand when the sleeve is finally gone. 

Instead, he’s guiding it up, onto the edge of the bedstead, and Zayn’s curling his fingers around the cool metal so Harry grabs on. “Think you can be good?” Zayn asks. He sounds like a teacher asking if a student’ll behave and of course it’s unbearably hot because it’s Zayn. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll be good.” He’ll be so good, if Zayn’ll just get off his fucking lap and do something, or stay on his lap and stop that grinding that has his dick already aching. 

Zayn continues like he didn’t even say anything. “Or should I make sure you stay there? Think you can do it, popstar? Think you can be good for me?” 

He does, he really does, but then there’s the thought of him tied up, opened up, for Zayn to do whatever he wants with, and “No, I think you should tie it.”

Zayn stops, then. “Really?”

“Yeah, really, Zayn, come on, please?” 

There’s cloth at his wrist, then, and a firm tug of Zayn securing his hand. “That good.”

“Yeah, ‘s fine.” Harry brings his other hand up on his own, groping behind him until he finds something to hold onto that’s comfortable. “Do the other.”

“You got a safeword?” Zayn asks, as he shifts his weight over to Harry’s left. He licks at Harry’s pulse point, this time, before he ties it down, and Harry’s fists clench. 

“Don’t need one.”

“Harry…”

“Fine. Bananas.”

“Can’t tell me you’ve never talked about bananas in bed.”

“Zayn.” He bucks his hips, and Zayn’s light enough that it makes him bounce, a little, which oh was not a good idea if he wanted to relieve the pressure on his dick. “’s fine, I won’t say anything about them, just fucking touch me already.” 

“Fair ‘nough.” But he doesn’t, just sits back on his heels, and Harry doesn’t even know what he’s doing, if he’s waiting or looking at him or fucking reading a book, so he bucks his hips again, just to make sure he’s paying attention, because Harry is tied up in front of him for him to have his way with so Zayn better be fucking paying attention because Harry certainly is. 

“Impatient, are we?” Zayn asks, and then no, he’s not supposed to be moving away, but he is, sliding down Harry’s legs. “Think I can slow you down?”

“Don’t want to slow down. Want you to touch me.”

“Don’t think I will, actually,” Zayn says, and Harry can hear the grin in it, which is all well and good, but also not okay. “Thought this was supposed to be about what I want.”

“It is!”

“Then I don’t want you to come until I say you can. That something you can do?”

“Zayn…”

“Can you do that, popstar?” And there’s that name, fond again, and Harry will do anything in the world for Zayn to always say his nickname for him like that, like it’s his. Like Harry’s his, this Harry that only he knows. 

“Yes, yes. I can.” 

“Good then. My night, right? So let’s get you out of these pants, that’s always hard. Don’t laugh,” he warns, when Harry giggles. 

“Or what?”

He doesn’t get a reply, just a pull on his jeans. So he lifts up his hips so Zayn can ease them off, and his boxers with him until he’s naked on the bed. It’s not quite cold, but it’s not warm either, without Zayn touching him. But he’s looking—or he isn’t, which makes it better, like not knowing where Zayn is looking means he’s looking everywhere, at all of Harry at once, trying to figure out what he wants to do first. It’s enough to make Harry squirm, to make his dick start to harden in earnest, the idea that Zayn could be looking at it and thinking about taking it into his mouth. 

But when the first touch comes it’s at his throat, and it’s only a finger, drawing a line down it feather-soft, barely even touching, but Harry’s been wanting Zayn to touch him for so long, forever it feels like, that it still makes him shiver. 

“So beautiful like this, you know that?” Zayn asks, and the finger flicks out to outline his collarbone. “All laid out for me, so open. Can do anything I want to you now, can’t I? You’d let me.”

Harry nods enthusiastically. He would. He would do anything for Zayn, would let Zayn do anything to him, he’s not sure why Zayn sounds so incredulous about it. 

“Do you want me to touch you, then?” Zayn goes on. The hand disappears, but there’s a sound like maybe Zayn’s taking his shirt off. In Harry’s head, he is, so there’s all the lovely black and gold skin, that tapered torso with the deceptive strength in it. Maybe he’ll make Harry lick him, lower his nipples into Harry’s mouth until he’s groaning with it. Maybe he’ll just skip that and feed his dick right into Harry’s mouth, make Harry take more and more until he’s gagging on it. Maybe—

“Shit!” he swears, as there’s a vicious twist of his nipples worthy even of Louis. “Zayn!”

“You weren’t paying attention to me,” Zayn retorts. “I want your full attention, Harry. I don’t want you thinking of anything else.”

“I’m not!” 

“Think you are. Think your mind’s in a thousand places, going going going. Think you’re still going to fast.”

“I’m not, Zayn, I promise.” That gets him a Zayn on top of him again, he can feel their thighs pressing together, even if there’s nothing else. “Just fucking hurry up, please.”

“Maybe I should gag you, too,” Zayn muses, and there’s a finger running across his lips. Harry reaches out, tries to grab it, but it’s gone before he can. “So you can’t talk back. Just have to do what I want.” Harry can feel him, now, feel that he’s close, probably on his hands so his face is right next to Harry’s, so he could grab him if he had hands. “But nah,” Zayn whispers, nearly against his lips. “I like it when you’re begging for me. Just me.” 

“I’m beg—” But Zayn cuts him off with a kiss, a brutal, rough kiss, his tongue thrusting ruthlessly in and out of Harry’s mouth and his hand is sliding down Harry’s neck to his nipple, twisting the already hardened nub so Harry groans into Zayn’s mouth. Then his mouth is gone so Harry’s gasping at air, Zayn’s lips moving down Harry’s neck as his hand goes to the other nipple, rubbing and pinching until Harry’s hips buck against Zayn’s and he’s mumbling out nonsense words because Zayn’s teeth are digging into his skin everywhere he goes like he’s trying to claim Harry, like Harry is his his his and he wants everyone to know, all the way from his collar bone down his chest to his bellybutton, then down to his hipbone and over his thighs and his mouth is so fucking close—but he veers away, down Harry’s leg until he’s teasing at the sensitive skin behind his knee, his hands firm on Harry’s hips so he can’t fucking move and he’s aching just with the feel of Zayn’s lips, with his chest scraping against Harry’s skin and the electric sensation wherever his fingers go. 

“Shit, Zayn, fuck me already, please—”

“Want to make sure you’re paying attention, first,” Zayn murmurs, but then he’s gone for a second, and Harry hears the scrape of a drawer that means he’s getting lube and a condom and even the anticipation of it makes him a little weak. 

Then Zayn’s back, and he runs a finger down Harry’s dick so he shivers with it before keeping going, over his balls then down to his hole. “You okay, popstar?” he asks, and Harry can only nod because fuck yeah he’s okay, he’s okayer than okay, he is the okayest. Then Zayn’s in him, or his finger is, and it’s enough to make Harry groan. 

“Shit, you’re so eager, aren’t you?” Zayn asks, but his other hand is wrapping around Harry’s dick, starting to stroke slow and long, not nearly tight enough. “Want this more than anything, right now.”

“’course,” Harry chokes out. He just—he can’t quite get enough leverage to grind down on Zayn’s finger as he thrusts it in and out, but he tries his best, and nearly sobs in relief when suddenly there are two fingers there instead of just the one. “Want you more than anything.” 

“Think about me, do you?” Zayn keeps going with his slow torture, the hand too soft to actually do anything, two fingers not fucking enough when he knows Zayn’s dick is right there, just out of reach, and Zayn has all this skin for him to touch all this him for Harry to mark up and he can’t even, “When you’re out there flirting with presenters and celebrities, are you thinking about me?”

“Always, yes, Zayn—” That gets him another finger, thank god, and Zayn’s hand tightening around his dick so Harry can’t figure out which way to thrust, up into Zayn’s hand or down into his fingers, but they’re both so good and he can feel the orgasm building in him, “Zayn, I’m gonna—”

“No.” And suddenly there’s nothing, like he’s just disappeared completely, and Harry nearly sobs with it. “Said you wouldn’t until I said so, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Want you to come while I’m inside you,” Zayn goes on, and Harry chokes because yes that sounds great if only because it means Zayn’ll be inside him soon. 

“Then fuck me.”

He doesn’t get any warning when Zayn thrusts inside him, just a single hard thrust that has him yelling out half in pain and half in _finally_. But he pauses, then, pulls up Harry’s legs so they’re hooked over his shoulders and the angle is a little less painful, and Harry starts to circle his hips, getting himself used to Zayn inside him. One day, he thinks, he’ll get himself ready before he gets here, so Zayn will go to open him up and he’ll be achingly open for him already, so they won’t have to wait, but right now it doesn’t matter because it’s like his entire world is focused to where Zayn’s thrusting inside of him, and then he’s not even touching Harry but he’s so hard he’s crying with it because he just wants—he just wants, wants Zayn to touch him all over and fuck him again and again and wants him to kiss him and wants him to do this in every place in the world, over and over and over, and—then Zayn shifts the angle again, pushes into him and Harry keens as he hits his prostate. 

“Zayn, I can’t—”

“Quitting already, popstar?” Zayn chokes, and at least he sounds undone. Harry suddenly wants this blindfold off, right now, because Zayn is falling apart and he can’t even see him, can’t see this Zayn with his hair loose and his cheeks flushed and his eyes wild, and Harry loves that Zayn, loves that he can make Zayn into that, but he can’t move his hands so he can just bite his lip hard and buck his hips to meet Zayn’s next thrust. 

“I just—I want—”

Something—stops. Or at least Zayn does, the fast and fierce suddenly freezing, even though Zayn’s still inside of him. “You always want, don’t you, Harry?” Zayn asks, and it doesn’t sound like dirty talk now. 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, twitching his hips so Zayn’ll start moving again, or at least touch him. “Always want you.” 

That gets Zayn to move again, but it’s slow this time, achingly slow, and Zayn’s lips are in his ear with each thrust that feels like it takes an eternity. “You’re so lovely, you know that, Harry? You’re always lovely, up on screen or in a concert or in my bed. Always so lovely and touchable, even when you’re not.”

“You can always fucking touch me. Should fucking touch me, right now.”

“Rather not, thanks,” and Harry knows that mischievous smirk that’d be on Zayn’s face even if he can’t see it. “You’re the most lovely like this, though. Aching for me, gonna come without me even touching you, just from my cock in you. Think you can do that?”

“Zayn—”

“Think you can?”

“Can I?”

Zayn’s hips move out slowly, then slam into him again, so skin slaps loudly against skin and Harry’s wrists jerk. 

“Yeah,” he breathes into Harry’s ear, “Yeah, fucking come for me, popstar. For me,” he says again, with a fierce thrust, and that’s enough for Harry to let go with a cry, arching up with Zayn’s thrust and letting go in a wordless cry. 

He can’t even come down from it before Zayn’s pounding into him again, again and again and he just wants to kiss him, wants to taste and touch, but before he can do anything Zayn’s muttering something into Harry’s ear that he can’t even hear and he gives one last thrust before he comes too, collapsing onto Harry’s chest. 

He gives Zayn a few seconds, but now that the sex is done he wants to cuddle. “Zayn,” he murmurs.

“Mph.”

“Zaynie,” he says again, “untie me?”

“Wha? Oh, yeah, shit Harry.” He pulls out, slowly, then moves to Harry’s hands, untying them with a kiss to each palm before he guides them down to his side. The blindfold is the last to go, and Zayn hovers over him for a second, his hands on either side of Harry’s face again, cradling his cheeks like he’s the one who’s fragile. 

Then he unties it and pulls it away, and it’s like—he doesn’t know what it’s like, but it’s almost an overload, and Harry deals with it the only way he knows how, sitting up and kissing Zayn, long and slow and sweet, without any need behind it except to taste him, to feel his hair beneath his hands and his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. 

When he pulls away, Zayn’s smiling at him, as soft and sweet as the kiss. And even if it’s not the smile Harry wants more than anything, the one where his tongue presses behind his teeth and his eyes scrunch up and he glows, it’s still enough to warm Harry from his toes to his head. 

“Cuddle now,” he orders, and Zayn snorts. But he also collapses next to Harry, wiggles over so Harry can throw an arm over his hip and pulls his head onto Harry’s chest. 

“Sleep, now,” Zayn adds, and Harry agrees. He feels like he hasn’t slept since he was last in this bed. 

Just before he drops off, he thinks he feels Zayn press a kiss onto the sweaty skin of his chest. “For me,” he thinks he hears, but he’s asleep before he can think about it anymore.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter (then an epilogue)! Don't hate me! Next chapter up Friday or Saturday.

Harry wakes up with Zayn warm against his chest, his head tucked under Harry’s chin. Harry breathes in the scent, like the shampoo they’d used during the shower Zayn had insisted they take last night before they actually went to bed—“I actually have to live in this place,” he’d said, which had made Harry pout, but then there had been shower sex so he hadn’t pouted for long. But then he disentangles himself and goes to look in the refrigerator to see if there was anything for breakfast. or, at least, tea. 

The breakfast quest proves futile, but by the time Zayn wakes up, Harry’s halfway through his mug of tea and is finally making his way through the copy of 100 Years of Solitude he’d chosen off of Zayn’s shelves. He’s going to finish it, one day, he’s decided, and then say something about it to Nick and watch Nick’s jaw drop. He’s not stupid, he knows that and Nick knows that, but he doesn’t read as much as he sometimes feels like he should, or maybe it’s just that he didn’t go to uni and missed out on all those books that Nick and Alexa and Pixie talk about sometimes, the things they read in their lit classes, and he just feels stupid. Feels like the dumb famous person who’s pretty but doesn’t have anything behind that. So he is going to finish this damn book. 

After he gets his fill of watching Zayn wake up, that is, his eyelashes fluttering against wide, open eyes, his cheeks flushed and soft. Maybe this is what he’d have looked like if they met years ago, like if he had gone on X Factor too. Harry thinks he’d have wanted him as fiercely then as he does now, probably. He can’t really conceive of a time when he wouldn’t want Zayn, wouldn’t want to find all the secret places in him, uncover all the softness under his cool front, want to take him apart. Want to cuddle up to him on cold nights and curl into him when his world is moving so fast. 

But for right now, he gets this, Zayn’s slow blooming smile as he stretches, his arms above his head and back arching in a way that makes Harry lose his breath.

“Morning, babe,” Harry says, quietly, and grins as Zayn makes grabbing motions at him. He hands over the tea, and Zayn pulls the mug up to his face and takes a long inhale before he drinks. It’s only once he’s let Harry take the mug back that he shakes a little, and shifts over so he can lean his head on Harry’s shoulder and look at what he’s reading. 

“Deep thoughts, popstar?” he asks, his voice still a little raspy with sleep. 

“I always have deep thoughts, I’ll have you know,” Harry retorts, but he closes the book, careful to keep his spot. “You want your own tea?”

“Don’t want to move.” Zayn’s arm has snaked behind Harry, around his waist. “Don’t want you to move.” But he steals the mug again, takes another sip. 

Harry gives him a few more sips to become at least somewhat coherent, then asks, a little quietly, “What are your plans for today?”

He feels Zayn’s shrug more than sees it. “Dunno. Was gonna paint some, maybe. Got some reading to do. Maybe go to Niall’s. Do some laundry. Why?”

“I don’t have to be in town til tomorrow morning for a meeting,” Harry says, slowly. He doesn’t want it to be a thing. Doesn’t want to force it. But the thought of going back to London right now sounds awful, like it would be Zayn kicking him out again. “I was thinking I could stay here?”

Zayn hums out a breath. “I actually would like to do things other than just sex,” he warns.

Harry nudges him with his hip in mock-annoyance. “I can do things other than sex,” he says, and waves the book pointedly. “I wanna finish this. And I have my ipod, and I can watch you paint, and I—” but he can’t meet Niall, could he, for all he wants to, because that’d break their cover, someone would notice him in the pub, or maybe Niall would say something, and then Zayn couldn’t stay hidden. “Well, I could fold your laundry or something. I can be useful.” 

“Sure you can, popstar.” But Zayn leans over so his hair is brushing against Harry’s cheek. “Can you be useful and grab my book?” 

Harry reaches over to the nightstand where _Anna Karenina_ is sitting and hands it over, then flips opens his book as well. He doesn’t start to read until Zayn’s untangled himself, moved so that his back is pressed against Harry’s side and his knees are drawn up so his book can rest on his thighs. And maybe Harry can’t resist it, maybe he leans over and presses a kiss to the top of Zayn’s head before he starts to read, but he’s a sap and Zayn will just have to deal with that. 

\---

It all gets a bit domestic after that, enough so that Nick teases Harry about it more or less constantly. It’s not that Harry doesn’t go out anymore, because he does, still smirks at cameras and mugs for the paps with joking kisses to Aimee or whoever he’s with that night. But he spends at least three nights a week in Zayn’s flat, both of them reading or messing around on their laptops or just chatting. Sometimes, if Harry can get away early or has more than a day off, he’ll already be there when Zayn gets home, can greet him with a kiss and a teasing, “so how was your day, honey?” that has Zayn rolling his eyes as Harry eases him out of his coat. Sometimes he still goes to the garage, to hang out with Zayn or watch him paint, which is still the best thing in the world, possibly better than him working on cars, because he gets all rapt and like transcendent and it’s like that time on the bike, when Zayn was laughing and gleeful and glowing.

Harry finally cleans the apartment, putting all the books on the shelves and throwing all the clothes into the hamper—he really wishes he could do laundry, or get someone to, but there’s no way of doing that without going outside—and gives the kitchen a firm scrubbing until it shines. That night, when Zayn gets home, he stops in the doorway like he’s literally struck dumb as Harry grins at him from the immaculate table. Then he very deliberately sets down his helmet, takes off his jacket, and crosses the room in three swift strides to press Harry into the table and undo all his good work by having Harry fuck him against it.

And even when he’s in London, which he has to do more and more as the month ticks on, doing promo for the album and all that, he keeps his notebook by him, writing down all the fun things he has to tell Zayn so he doesn’t forget any one of them. Nick laughs at him for that, too, asks why they don’t just exchange phone numbers like normal people, but Harry’s been on enough interviews where they ask him about his last text to be wary of that. Hell, he’s played call or delete on air with Nick, and he knows Nick would make him call. Or Louis would steal his phone one day and find it and then he would call because he is the nosiest person Harry knows, and then that would just be the tip of the iceberg, Harry’s pretty sure, because Louis can’t keep a secret to save his life.

 So they don’t text, and they don’t email, and it’s fun, in a way; it means Harry always has plenty to say when he next sees Zayn, and the anticipation of it, the not hearing Zayn’s voice for a day, makes it all the sweeter when they do see each other. He’s not sure Zayn’s voice will ever stop sending shivers up his spine, he’s pretty sure it won’t, but he doesn’t want to risk it. Not when he has this, has them together on the bed, Harry with his ipod in, doodling aimlessly in his notebook, Zayn on his laptop with his toes tucked underneath Harry’s thighs.

Zayn wrinkles his nose in frustration, and Harry has to grin a little, because mildly frustrated Zayn is adorable. “Whatcha doing?” he asks, taking out of his earbuds and setting aside his notebook so he can scoot over to look at the screen. ‘Why are you looking at pictures of me?” He smirks. “If you need pictures for the days I’m not here, we can take better ones than these.”

“Looking for a birthday present for Safaa,” Zayn explains, and bites at his tongue again as he stares at the page. “She’s still obsessed with you—don’t know why—and so I was thinking maybe a t-shirt? Can’t really swing anything too expensive, but that should be fine.”

“I could get tickets to a show!” Harry suggests, because that’s perfect, he doesn’t know why Zayn didn’t think of that in the first place. “I’ve got one in London in a few months, I think it’s sold out but I’m sure I can manage it.” Maybe backstage passes, too? Would getting them a nice London hotel room be too much—no, because clearly they won’t want to drive back after the show, and then Zayn would have an excuse to stay over and Harry could finally get him into his flat, could finally mark up his flat with memories of Zayn so that it doesn’t feel quite so cold.

He’s so busy planning both the best place to get Zayn and his sisters tickets, and where he wants to fuck Zayn first in his flat (he’s thinking couch, probably, or maybe the wall then the couch then wall of his bedroom then the bed then maybe the kitchen, not the spare room because sometimes his mum sleeps there but definitely the master shower, then the bed again, for starters), that he doesn’t hear whatever Zayn says. He does feel him shake his head, though.

“Hm?” Harry asks. Maybe they won’t even need to get to his flat. They can start in the green room, so whenever Harry goes into green rooms he’ll think of Zayn. It wouldn’t be the first green room sex he had, admittedly, but it’d almost certainly be the best.

“I said, no thanks,” Zayn repeats, a little coolly. His shoulders are stiff under Harry’s arms. “It’s nice of you to say, but I’ll get her something on my own.”

It hurts. It hurts enough that Harry draws back, a little, so they aren’t touching anymore. It hurts as much as that time a few weeks ago when Zayn had mentioned he had dinner with his family that night and Harry had been waiting, had wanted to scream at him that he would come he was great with families he would make them all love him and everything would be brilliant, but Zayn hadn’t said anything and so Harry had left early, had gone to London and gone out with Louis and Liam and stumbled home drunk enough he barely even remembered the pictures he saw in a tabloid the next day of him of him whispering something to that pretty friend of Liam’s that had sparked all those rumors.

“Okay,” Harry chokes out, trying to find his popstar voice, the one that he uses when people insult him to his face and he has to be charming to them anyway. “It was just a suggestion.” He stares down at his hand, braced against the comforter, pale against the rich purple. Pale against the gold tint of Zayn’s, even though they aren’t touching.

 Then Zayn’s hand moves, reaches out to squeeze Harry’s knee. “It is nice, Harry. I appreciate the thought. I just—no money, remember?” He tips his head over, so their temples are brushing. “Let me have that much.”

“What does that even mean?” Harry whines, but Zayn’s pressing kisses into his throat and it’s pretty distracting. It’s probably unhealthy, how easily the hurt goes away when Zayn’s tongue flicks over his ear, or bites down against his pulse point not quite hard enough to bruise, but, well, Harry’d like to see the person who could resist. Actually, he wouldn’t, because Zayn’s not allowed to kiss anyone else like this, and if someone could resist Zayn would take it as a personal challenge to break them, but he’d hypothetically like to see.

Then suddenly, Zayn stops. “Hey, are you listening to Louis Tomlinson?” he asks, grabbing the earbud and bringing it up to his ear. “I’ve not heard this one yet.”

“It hasn’t dropped yet,” Harry explains, and pouts when Zayn shushes him to listen. “I don’t get why you like his music and not mine. Neither of us are those hipster bands you usually listen to.”

“Maybe I’d just rather listen to his voice than yours.” Zayn smirks at him, eyes glinting with a bit of mischief that always makes Harry a little weak at the knees, because he hadn’t even suspected that was there the first time he saw him, that marble statue getting off his bike. “Maybe he’s prettier than you.”

“Lies!” Harry cries, and has the only possible response, which is to tackle Zayn, jolting the computer out of the way, though it luckily stays on the bed as they roll, Harry trying to dig his fingers into all the ticklish spots he knows Zayn has, Zayn squirming away.

He doesn’t know how he does it, but like always, Zayn ends up on top, which shouldn’t be true because Harry is bigger and he works out a lot, but somehow Zayn always wins. Or, well, they both win, because Zayn ends up on top, pinning Harry down with his hips over Harry’s waist and Harry’s arms held down above his head and Zayn’s face grinning down just inches away from him, that wild, little manic look in his eyes that always reminds Harry weirdly of Louis. “Say uncle?” he demands, and Harry shifts his hips uncomfortably. Rolling around with Zayn is a pretty surefire way to get him hot and bothered.

“Uncle,” he agrees, and arches up to press his lips to Zayn’s. Zayn laughs into his mouth, gleeful, and Harry swallows that down, the energy of it, and tries to roll them over. Zayn’s got a good grip on him, though, doesn’t let him move even enough to get any friction on his dick, which is all sorts of unfair, unfair enough that Harry’s flails out a little with his leg—and accidentally hits the computer.

“Oh, shit.” Zayn sits up at that, lets go of Harry. Harry pouts as he reaches back to grab it, but he supposes someone has to be practical. At least it happened now, rather than when they had really gotten started.

Zayn’s halfway through closing it, which Harry definitely approves of, and shows by circling his hips slowly beneath Zayn’s, when he pauses. Which Harry does not approve. “Three this week, Harry, really?” he asks, and when Harry makes a confused noise shows him the screen. It’s a set of pictures on some blog that must have opened, of three sets of pap pictures of him with three different people. None of them Grimmy this time, or Louis, which is actually impressive.

Harry laughs, and pushes himself up so that he’s sitting up and now it’s more like Zayn’s in his lap, rather than the other way around. “Don’t worry, babe, I’ll still find time for you,” he teases, and bites at Zayn’s nose as he takes the computer from Zayn and closes it, setting it onto the table. “Now weren’t we doing something?”

Zayn’s got a weird look on his face, and it’s almost sad so it’s not one Harry wants to see. He does the reasonable thing and kisses him, grabbing his hips hard enough that he hopes it bruises, and by the time he next gets a clear view of Zayn’s face, as he watches him fall apart from Harry’s hand on him and Harry’s thrusts against him, that face is totally gone.

\---

The only problem with hanging out at the garage, Harry’s found, is that there aren’t great places to sit. It’s not a problem for Zayn, obviously, because he’s either dealing with a car or standing up looking at the wall, but Harry’s resorted to carrying in a stool. He thinks he might get a director’s chair sometime, maybe steal it from Ben, and just keep it in the car. It’d probably be a good thing to have anyway. Sometimes you just needed a chair, and there wasn’t one handy.

But that doesn’t help him now, because all the stools have magically disappeared—Zayn shrugged and said something about Waliyha’s science project when Harry had asked—so he’s resorted to sitting on the boot of the sedan that Zayn was doing something to before he had declared himself ready for a break and had gotten out his spray paint. And that isn’t helping his sex on/in/around a car fantasies at all, because painting Zayn is one of the hottest Zayns, even with the facemask, and he’s got this denim jacket on today and even if it doesn’t look as good as the coat Harry got it’s still doing great things to his shoulders.

Zayn’s humming while he works, which means he’s satisfied with how it looks, Harry’s started to figure out. Harry is satisfied, at least, and leans back against the windshield so he can just relax and look. Zayn’s always worth looking at; he’s a piece of art in himself. Harry would try to convince him to do some modeling, or something, to get out from behind the art, except he likes the idea of not having to share Zayn with the world. Or, no, he wants to share Zayn with the world, but as his. Not as some nameless person wearing Calvin Klein or Gucci or Yves St Lauren or any of the million other designers he knows would pay thousands of dollars so Zayn would wear them. They’ve offered to pay Harry that much, and he’s not even half so pretty.

Harry’s so busy concentrating on how the jacket makes Zayn’s back look like a perfect triangle, broad shoulders dropping into slim hips that fit perfectly into Harry, that he barely even realizes it when Zayn stops humming, and starts singing. Then he realizes it, and his breath catches in his throat.

It’s one of Louis’s older songs, Harry recognizes, one of the first ones he came out with when he burst onto the scene. But in Zayn’s voice it’s different, changed from the anger and passion that had made Louis so successful into something warmer, almost. Something that makes Harry both want to wrap himself in a warm blanket and shove Zayn against the wall and fuck him right now, something heavy and rough and soulful, twisting into harmonies around the melody Harry can imagine Louis singing, soaring up and around it then riffing back down. It’s rough, Harry knows, untrained and unpracticed, but it’s… Harry literally shivers, as Zayn holds out the last note, longer than Louis does in the record, out and out and out until it trails off like a heartbreak, like the heartbreak the song’s about (his uni girlfriend, Louis’d told Harry once—that’s who he’d wrote it about, when he was right off the breakup.)

Harry’s frozen, trying to fold in on himself, like if he doesn’t move Zayn will keep on forgetting he’s there and will keep singing always. And for a second, it looks like that’s going to happen, as Zayn breathes in like he’s filling his lungs for another one of those beautiful high notes.

But then the spray can that Zayn’d been using clicks and runs out, and Zayn deflates again. He turns back to pick up a new one—and catches sight of Harry’s wide eyes.

“What?” he demands, but he’s chewing on his lower lip.

 “That’s—” Harry has to swallow to find his voice again. “Zayn, that was brilliant. Your voice…”

Zayn shrugs, still a little defensively. “My mate and I used to do that as a duet in uni. We got pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Harry leaps up off the car to punctuate it. “Pretty good? Zayn, that was as good as Louis! You need to do a duet with him. Somehow. Do you have the song on your ipod, I want to hear it together…” He trails off when Zayn starts to laugh. “What’s so funny? I know music, I know good singing when I hear it. It’s my job, basically. And you could—I could talk to my manager, maybe? Say I found you singing in a coffee shop or something, or I could even talk to Simon, he usually listens to me, I make him a lot of money, I—”

“Harry.” Zayn cuts him off. “Don’t.”

“Why not? It would be sick, you could sing and—”

“I don’t—no.”

“Zayn—”

“I almost tried out for the X Factor, yeah?” Zayn interrupts. He reaches down to pick up a new can of paint, which means Harry can’t see his face anymore. “Same year you won.”

That makes Harry pause. Not just because it’s unexpected, though it is, but because he can’t conceive of the ‘almost’. He had been dying to try out since he learned where the auditions were, had practiced for months and months and had begged and bribed and charmed his mother into letting him. And then, if Zayn had been there—he might have beat Harry. With his face and his voice and—it terrifies Harry, almost. The thought that maybe he wouldn’t have this. Wouldn’t have everything he’s fought for.

“Why didn’t you?” he asks, instead of saying that. It didn’t happen. He got what he wanted.

Zayn shrugs again, and draws a wide line of green at the bottom of the wall. “I dunno. Got scared, mainly. I didn’t…” he stops talking, curves the line up until it goes over Harry’s head. Harry waits for him to talk again, because he’s figured out sometimes you have to wait for Zayn to figure out what he wants to say before he’s going to say it, and rushing him won’t help. “I’m not like you, Harry. I didn’t—I didn’t want it as bad as you did. As bad as you do.” He drops the can, picks up a blue to make a square between the green lines. “I’d—it’d drive me mad, all of the stuff you do.”

“Drives me mad, sometimes,” Harry agrees. He just loves it anyway, for the times it doesn’t. For those times he’s standing on stage and everyone’s screaming and it’s like a wave of love crashing down on him, like all the energy in the world’s swirling in that arena and he’s at the center.

“More than you already are?” Zayn teases, and Harry sticks his tongue out at his back.

“That reminds me, actually,” Harry shifts between his feet, because he’s been putting off saying this. “I’ve got a sort of mini-tour coming up, on the East Coast of the US—New York City and Boston and those sort of places. It’ll be a few weeks.”

He wishes he had said something when Zayn was facing him, because now all he can see is Zayn’s back, and the way the line he draws isn’t exactly straight. But all he says is, “When are you leaving?”

“A week? Not til next Wednesday, so I’ll be here before, I just wanted to—warn you, I guess?”

“Thanks, then.” He’s filling in the areas between the blue and the green with red zigzags. Harry’s filled with a sudden urge to touch him, to see what he feels like right now, underneath the jacket that’s feeling more and more like armor the more he looks at it. So he does, going over to Zayn and wrapping both arms around his waist so he can pull Zayn close, can feel the warmth of him. And there’s something about it that’s almost like being on a stage, with all the energy and fire, but not at all. It’s like he’s circling something instead, something that’s not the opposite of energy but is, like a heartbeat rather than whirlwind. Harry likes them both, he thinks, but he especially likes this, right now, where he can hook his chin over Zayn’s shoulder and hold his breath as he draws the green up onto the top.

“’s not a bad thing, you know,” Zayn says, suddenly.

“Hm?”

 “That you wanted it. That you still want it.”

“I know.” Harry’s never apologized for it, never will. It’s who he is, and there’s some things not even management can change. “Kind of wish we could have met during X Factor, though.”

Zayn’s laugh vibrates through Harry. “I would have hated you, mate.”

“Hey! I was a very lovable teenager,” Harry retorts, and bites at Zayn’s neck in retaliation.

\---

Harry tries to forget he’s leaving, but the day before he actually has to go, he decides to go in the opposite direction. His flight leaves midmorning, so he’s got some wiggle room. Usually, he goes out the night before a tour—a last taste of London, and if you get the right level of hangover flying can be great, just knocks you right out. Sometimes he has emergency packing sessions.

But not this time. This time, he packs up two days early, sets his suitcase by the door, and loads his car with all the groceries he’d ordered. Then he drives to Zayn’s, lets himself in a good two hours before Zayn will be home, and starts to cook.

He’s actually pretty proud of himself, not just of the food, but of his timing—he’s just sliding the pot roast out of the oven (in the pan he brought himself, luckily), when the key jiggles in the lock and Zayn opens the door.

“You’re here—” he starts, and then he stops, and Harry grins as his eyes widen as he takes in the room. Harry’s pretty impressed with himself there, too—the nicely set table, the candles at the center, the flowers he’d picked up on a whim when he passed by a stand on the way here. The smell of the roast and warming bread in the air, the salad on the table, the wine decanting next to it. The ambiance, really. Let no one say Harry does not know how to do romantic. “Harry?” he says, and his voice is a little hoarse.

“Hey babe.” Harry carefully sets the roasting pan on the stove, then pulls off his oven mitts and goes over to kiss Zayn hello. And maybe a little bit more, too, long and slow, something to savor. “Hungry?”

“Yeah, but—” Zayn’s got these eyes on, wide and astonished, something almost young in them. “You cooked all this?”

“Yep!” Harry pulls back enough to grin at him, sliding his fingers under the hem of Zayn’s henley just enough to rub comforting circles over his skin. Or just to touch his skin, because he needs that, needs to keep doing that so he can remember it for the next three weeks. “You like it?”

“It looks great, Harry, I—”

“Then go wash your hands, and we’ll eat,” he tells Zayn’s jaw, because it’s a pretty jaw, warm and smelling like smoke and oil and paint and Zayn beneath it all.

“You’ll have to let go of me, then,” Zayn points out, chuckling a little even as he tilts his head back to let Harry kiss down his neck, little stinging bites he licks over.

“Mm.” He moves on to nuzzle into Zayn’s collar. Zayn’s hands are sliding under Harry’s shirt now, up his back with little pricks of fingernails, and— “No,” Harry says, and gets a hold of himself. He steps back, letting go of Zayn, and forcing Zayn to let go of him. “Go. Wash your hands. Food first. Then sex.”

“Glad to know you have your priorities straight,” Zayn retorts, but he goes, and Harry gets himself very strictly under control by focusing on properly presenting the roast and moving it to the table. He pours two glasses of wine, adjusts the one by Zayn’s chair a little bit to the right—then can’t resist himself and snaps a picture of it. He can’t Instagram it, he guesses, but maybe he will one day. Maybe he’ll make a scrapbook.

“Gonna tweet that?” Zayn drawls, coming back in.

“Course not,” Harry assures him, sliding his phone back into his pocket and grinning at him hard enough to hurt. He’s more than just washed his hands; he clearly cleaned up a little, his hair a little less motorcycle-head and a little more purposeful-messy, a clean shirt pulled on, a black button up that makes Harry’s .mouth go a little dry. He’s never seen Zayn in anything other than his t-shirts. He swallows, and keeps going. “Wine?”

“Yeah, sure.” He picks up the glass Harry gestures to, swirls it once before taking a sip. His eyebrows go up as he swallows. “Shit, that’s good.”

“Only the best for you,” Harry agrees, and then, before Zayn can argue because the wine wasn’t even that expensive, and, he doesn’t want to mess up tonight by arguing, “And this is part of the me paying for my food thing so you can’t get mad.”

Zayn presses his lips together, but he’s got a smile in his eyes, so Harry’s pretty sure it’s okay. “Fine.” He nods, and jerks his chin towards the table. “It looks great.”

“It’ll taste great, too,” Harry informs him, and hurries around the table to pull out his chair for him. Zayn rolls his eyes at that, but he sits down with the small, fond smile Harry’s taken to thinking of as his smile. It’s not quite as good as the one Harry’s still yet to get, crescent-eyed and bright, but it’s pretty good, and better because it’s his.

The smile stays all through dinner—which is good, Harry’s pleased to note—as they talk about Harry’s plans for his tour and all the things he had saved up to say and how many dishes Niall broke at the pub last night and how he managed not to pay for them by starting a collection. Zayn clears the table—it’s only fair, he insists, and Harry pouts but lets him, because this is nice too, working together—and then Harry gets out dessert and they feed each other chocolate covered strawberries, because according to Zayn Harry is the most clichéd sap in the world, and Harry can’t really disagree.

It’s only after, when they’ve moved onto the bed and Harry’s half on Zayn’s lap, fiddling idly with the fingers of Zayn’s hand as his other hand plays with Harry’s hair, that the sad hits him. “’m gonna miss you,” he says, quietly. It’s not a confession or anything, Zayn knows it, but it still feels like something he should say quietly, keep in this little bubble around the two of them.

Zayn’s fingers pause in Harry’s hair, then start to scratch again. He turns his other palm over, and interlaces their fingers on his thigh. “I’ll miss you too,” he says, more into Harry’s hair than out loud. He sounds almost sheepish about it, a little ashamed, so Harry squeezes his hand.

It stays sad as long as it’s quiet, even though it’s not even like he’s going to be away that long, three weeks isn’t forever or anything. But still, three weeks without this, without curling up with Zayn in the quiet, soaking in the steady, thrumming energy of him, like the heartbeat Harry could hear if he tilted his head a little to press against Zayn’s chest. He’s not exactly looking forward to it.

“Thank you. For dinner.” Zayn breaks the silence this time. “It was sweet.”

“’m always sweet, I’ll have you know,” Harry protests. He needs to lighten the mood, he thinks. He doesn’t want to be sad. Not here. So he breaks away from Zayn, gets up to look at the bookshelves, see if there’s anything he wants to take for the road. “And I needed some way to make sure you remembered me while I was away, yeah?”

“Like I could forget you. I’ll be informed every time you step outside,” Zayn teases. “I think Safaa has you on google alert.”

“Fine.” Harry sticks out his lower lip. He likes to think of Zayn missing him. Maybe not pining away, because Zayn doesn’t have much weight to lose, but missing him, definitely. “Maybe I need to remember you. I don’t have google alerts for you, and people in the US love me.” He twists so he can give Zayn his best come hither smile. “You gonna give me something to remember?”

Zayn blinks, long and slow. Harry could get lost in his eyelashes alone, the way they outline those eyes with all their different colors, like Zayn with all his different parts of him. But then Zayn’s getting up from the bed, his Harry-smile on, and Harry forgets to be distracted by his eyes because he’s distracted by the all of him. He moves to Harry like he’s moving through honey, slow and smooth, or maybe that’s just the way Harry sees it, in some sort of slow motion. But when he reaches Harry, puts his hands on hips and leans in to kiss him, it’s not honey-slow.

He kisses like he has something to prove, like it’s burning in him and he can’t wait, like he wants to devour Harry from the mouth down. He kisses Harry like there’s nothing in the world he wants more, and he’s never kissed Harry like this, like he’s everything. Harry’s not sure anyone’s ever kissed him like this, but he wants more. His hands are tangled in Zayn’s hair and when Zayn bites on his lip like he’s ordering him to open up he does, so Zayn can lick into his mouth. Harry moans into it, rolls his hips because he can’t not when Zayn’s pressed so closely against him. 

But for all that closeness, there’s not enough skin, so Harry lets go of Zayn’s hair without letting go of his lips and slides his hands between them to start unbuttoning. He makes a low, whiny sound when Zayn lets go of his hips to knock Harry’s hands away. “Wanna get naked,” he whines, and Zayn pulls back enough to smile. 

“Then let’s get you naked,” he agrees, and his smile isn’t quite a happy smile, so even though Harry absolutely approves of the sentiment he goes back to kissing Zayn, kissing him so hard and thoroughly that he’ll never forget it, that his sister will be showing him pictures of Harry on interviews and his lips will throb with it and maybe he’ll have to leave to cool down, just from the sight of Harry and the memory of this kiss. He moves down to Zayn’s neck, biting with more teeth than usual because it makes Zayn moan, and because he wants to leave a fucking mark. 

Then suddenly it’s his turn to moan because Zayn’s gotten his shirt off, and his fingers are scraping over Harry’s nipples, a pinch just on the good side of pain, and Harry shivers with it, and grabs at Zayn’s ass in retaliation, squeezing it until Zayn makes a pleased hum deep in his throat. His fingers are already going for Harry’s belt, undoing it before Harry’s even managed to get Zayn’s shirt off. It’s hard to complain, though, when Zayn’s fingers are brushing against Harry’s cock through his boxers, thumb lingering teasingly as he licks at Harry’s collarbone. 

“This what I’m getting?” Harry manages to tease, somehow, though he’s not sure how he finds the breath, “A hand job?”

Zayn’s hand pulls away from his dick, and Harry wants to pull the words back in, make them never happen, just so Zayn will touch him again. His eyes are dark, pupils blown with arousal, but they’re very steady and serious as he looks at Harry. “What do you want?” Zayn asks. Harry can almost feel him vibrating. He thinks he’s on fire from the intensity of Zayn’s gaze, thinks Zayn’s set him on fire with it. 

“Well,” Harry jokes, because if he doesn’t joke he’s not sure he’d ever be able to leave, to leave this beautiful boy with his eyes that only burn for Harry. “You could finally give me that blow job.” 

“Okay.” 

It—everything in Harry freezes, all at once. Including his dick, going almost instantly even harder than Harry thought possible. “What?”

“Okay,” Zayn repeats. It’d be nice if he sounded more enthusiastic than determined, but Harry’s too busy processing the assent to care. “Yeah, okay.”

“What? Really? I mean, you don’t have—” Zayn shoves him before he can keep talking, pushes him back into the bookshelf hard enough Harry’s head bangs against the shelf a little. He catches the yelp between this teeth, keeps it back. He’s not making Zayn concerned now. Not when he’s sinking to his knees, pulling Harry’s jeans down, his boxers with them, until they’re around Harry’s ankles and then Zayn eases them off so that Harry’s totally naked. And, like, Harry likes to be naked, loves it, loves it especially when it’s around Zayn, but it’s never felt like this, with Zayn’s hands running back up his thighs to circle his hips. 

Harry’s achingly hard just with the idea of Zayn’s lips near his dick, with the anticipation, so when Zayn finally wraps his lips around the head, his tongue licking over the slit, Harry’s hips jerk uncontrollably, like a full body shiver. Zayn pushes back, pushes his hips back against the wood with one hand as the other wraps around the base, moving in a fast, punishing rhythm with Zayn’s mouth. 

It’s all Harry can do not to buck off Zayn’s warning hand, as Zayn presses little kitten kisses up Harry’s cock then takes him in again, deeper, sucking like his life depends on it. Harry’s hands flail, trying to grab something, because the shelf’s not at the right angle and if he doesn’t grab onto something he’s going to come right now, and somehow, he’s not sure how—well he is but that’s a different story—they end up in Zayn’s hair. He tries his best not to pull, just to grab, to anchor, to let Zayn set the pace because Zayn’s doing this for him so the least he can do is not be an ass, but when he looks down it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, Zayn’s cheeks hollowed out around him, his hair messy and wet with sweat against his skin, against Harry’s skin. 

“Fucking shit, Zayn, you’re the best, the best, you’re the most beautiful ever…” he’s babbling out nonsense, he knows, best and beautiful and wonderful and things he can’t remember and doesn’t care about because all that matters is Zayn’s mouth tight around him and the friction of his skin against Harry’s cock, and—

Then Zayn lets go of Harry’s hip, grabs onto the shelf behind him instead like he’s bracing himself, and Harry—well he can take a message but he’s not going to assumed. 

“You want…” he trails off. It’s probably the hardest two words he’s ever said. 

Zayn pulls off long enough to look up at him, those glinting eyes beneath the long lashes, and nods, quick and sharp. 

Harry can’t wait anymore. He’s been waiting for this for his whole life, he thinks. So slowly, carefully, he guides Zayn’s mouth back onto his cock, then pushes into him. He tries to be gentle, he does, but when Zayn doesn’t complain, even when he goes deeper than he was before. But then Zayn makes that humming again, around Harry’s dick this time, and all control disappears. He gets a grip of Zayn’s hair and holds him still as he fucks into his mouth, arrhythmic thrusts he couldn’t control if he wanted to, and Zayn lets him, lets Harry hold him down and his throat is fluttering against his cock and—

“Shit, babe…” he stammers, and maybe it’s mean, maybe it’s taking advantage, but he’s dreamed of this a thousand times and he’s finally getting it and who knows if he’ll ever get it again, so he drags Zayn’s head back, off of him with a wet pop and Zayn’s obscenely pink lips, and Zayn barely gets time to open his mouth in question before Harry’s coming in thick, wet spurts over his face. It’s one of the best things Harry’s ever seen, Zayn blinking up at him with Harry’s cum across those beautiful cheekbones, over pink pink lips and even a little caught on the edges of his eyelashes. 

He expects Zayn to swear at him, to slap him or complain, and he would care if he wasn’t wrung out with the force of his orgasm. But instead, Zayn’s tongue just flicks out, licks the cum from off his lips, and if Harry was capable of getting hard again he would. He wants to take a picture of that so he can keep it with him always, to have when he’s alone, to have and know he has and never show anyone else. 

Instead he disentangles his fingers from Zayn’s hair and drags him to his feet, licks his cum away because it’s the easiest way to get rid of it, and the orgasm high means he doesn’t mind the taste, and he’ll never mind the excuse to lick Zayn’s face, to feel him wrinkle his nose. Then he kisses him, long and hard, with the taste of Harry between them, and shoves Zayn’s jeans down far enough to get a hand around him. He jerks him off hard and fast, because he’s already hard and Harry doesn’t have the patience to play games, until Zayn comes, Harry swallowing down the stilted groan, then catching him as he sags against Harry, his head buried in Harry’s neck. 

Harry tries his best to hold him up when his legs are about ready to give out, because he’s not the one who’d just been kneeling. But it’s Zayn who recovers first, lifting up his head with that huge-eyed, vulnerable look that hits Harry right in the heart. He grabs Harry’s hand and pulls him backwards, towards the bed. Harry goes, because cuddles are always good. 

Once they get to the bed, though, it’s Harry who arranges them, who pulls Zayn on top of him so he can play with his hair, for once. So he can feel like he’s surrounding Zayn, like he’s keeping him safe and warm and away from all the sad-smiles ever. He rests his chin on the top of Zayn’s head, wraps his arms around his shoulders—and shit, he’s still wearing all his clothes, Harry only notices then. He’ll make it up to him when he gets back. 

They sit there for a long, long time, Harry thinks. He can feel Zayn’s breaths, long and slow enough that he thinks Zayn might have fallen asleep. He’s going there himself, lulled by Zayn’s warmth and the quiet, when Zayn speaks. 

“I will miss you, you know,” he says, softly. Harry can hear it rasp against his throat, and it’s sexier than it should be, knowing he did that. Knowing that rasp might linger, might make Zayn think of him every time he talks, every time he breathes. 

“I know,” Harry smiles into Zayn’s hair. “I’ll miss you too. I’ll have so much to tell you when I get back.” 

Zayn breathes again, in and out, and just like that, the quiet’s back. 

\---

“Do you know you’re in a relationship?”

Harry looks up from the notebook where he’s been scribbling everything he can think of from the interview that he wants to tell Zayn—the tattoo on the makeup artist’s hand, the funny thing the interviewer had said to him before they went on, what he was thinking when the interviewer asked him about cars, and he knew he was forgetting something… “Yeah?” he tries. He doesn’t quite get where Liam’s going with this.

“Nah, not with your boy.” Liam’s sprawled out on Harry’s bed, looking at his computer—probably his twitter feed, he’s been obsessed with twitter. “You’re getting back together with Carmen Clancy, apparently.”

“Really?” He’s trying hard to sound interested, but it’s been a long day of interviews and he’s tired and he’d love a nap before he goes out tonight, but he needs to finish this first because he doesn’t want to forget anything. “Why?”

“You were seen together a few days ago.” 

“I said hello!” Harry protests. He knows he’s not supposed to talk to his exes unless management has cleared it first or he really can’t avoid it, but she had been at the bar and he had been at the bar and he liked her, was the thing, always had, even if their relationship hadn’t worked out that well and had meant six months hard work for the PR people. “I couldn’t not, it would have been even more awkward if I had avoided her.”

“And you were buying her flowers last week, outside London,” Liam adds, clearly scrolling down an article. Harry’s stopped going through his press, unless Liam or Louis or someone sends him something really hysterical, but Liam clearly has no such qualms. “As an apology.”

“For cheating?” Harry asks, tilting his head to consider. “I think I’d need more than flowers.” And it hadn’t been cheating, really. He had been drunk and the other girl had been there and both he and Carmen had known it wasn’t real but apparently the girl hadn’t. And had decided to make money off of it.

Then he replays what Liam just said, and it hits him. “Wait, did the paps see me getting flowers? Did they follow me? Have they—”

“Nah, your boy’s safe. Or at least, I haven’t seen anything about him, and it would be there.” Harry lets out his breath. He can’t—if anything’s ever going to come out, he needs to be there. To be there for Zayn, for them. “Looks like it was just a fan spotting you. And you’ve not been around as much for the past month, so clearly you’ve been locked in her sex dungeon.”

“She has a sex dungeon?”

“So styles4life5982 claims.” Liam purses his lips. “Although how she’d know, I’m not sure.”

“Well, I haven’t been.”

“I know that. You’ve been locked in your boy’s sex dungeon.”

Sometimes, Harry regrets letting Liam ever meet Louis. “He doesn’t have a sex dungeon!” Harry protests, and throws a pillow at Liam to emphasize. He misses, but he thinks the point is made.

“I know. You’re just nesting.” He glances at Harry over the edge of his computer, his eyes a little crinkled. It’s his fond smile, not as good as Zayn’s, but it still always gets Harry to grin back. “It’s pretty cute, really.”

“I know, isn’t it?” Harry notes that down in his journal too, because he thinks Zayn is getting to like Liam from Harry’s stories, and he’ll be happy to know Liam approves.

\---

This time, Harry doesn’t go straight to Zayn’s when he gets back to England. It’s late and he’s tired but not mindless, and he wants to be refreshed for when he sees Zayn again and gives him a thank you, happy to be home blow job. And the schedule got changed around a little bit, so Zayn’s not expecting him back for another three or four days anyway. He’ll still get to surprise him if he waits a few hours.

So instead he goes back to his flat to unpack, then collapses on the couch. He texts Louis, asking if he wants to come over, but a friend of his just moved to town so he can’t, which sucks. He would text Liam, but he’s spent too much time with him for the past two weeks and he thinks Liam was getting to the point of needing a break because the last time he had mentioned Zayn’s opinion about something Liam had got that ‘I’m a responsible adult and so not going to hit you’ look he gets sometimes. Nick’s out, and after three weeks straight of parties and clubs and bars, Harry kind of just wants to curl up with a movie.

So he does, flicks on Love Actually because he’s in a sappy mood and Zayn refused to watch it before December, which is a stupid rule but one apparently everyone has, because Louis also has that rule. He falls asleep on the couch, and dreams of kissing Zayn behind a stage, confetti all around them, and a thousand thousand fans cheering.

He sleeps for somewhere around twelve hours, then he goes to the gym, takes a bit of time with his hair and clothes because—well, because. Because it’s been three weeks and who knows what Zayn’s done since then, what he’s been thinking about Harry, because what if he’d built Harry up in his mind and then Harry isn’t as cute as he remembers him being? What if he doesn’t see Harry and immediately push him against a wall? Harry’s not sure what he would do if that happened, but it would probably involve pushing Zayn against a wall. Which wouldn’t be a bad thing, really, if he got there and Zayn was, like, standing in the middle of the room and Harry could just pick him up and throw him onto the bed before he even said hello.

He rides the wave of that thought all the way to Zayn’s, gleefully planning just what he’s going to do to Zayn to take him apart, to rebrand him in all the ways Harry can, to taste every inch of skin to make sure nothing’s changed since he last saw him. He rides it up the stairs of Zayn’s building, crescendoing as he unlocks the door, because he’s going to see Zayn again, to taste and touch and—

His keys clatter against the wood as they slip from between his frozen fingers.

The room is empty.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the story winds down! But stick around for the epilogue, up Sunday!

The room isn't just empty, it's stripped bare. Like no one lived there. The books gone from the shelves, the floor clean, the bed bare of sheets or blankets or the five million pillows Zayn always had on it. There aren’t any dishes in the drain, no half-drunk mugs of tea scattered around the flat. It’s like—it’s like everything that made the flat Zayn’s is gone, like it never was.

Maybe it wasn’t. Harry doesn’t bother closing the door as he moves in, slowly as did the first time. Maybe Zayn’s been a ghost this whole time, somehow trapped in this town because he died tragically here, and Harry’s love had—set him free? Let him die? Harry’s not sure, but he doesn’t like it, because it means Zayn isn’t coming back. And anyway, other people at the garage had talked to Zayn, had seen him. So he had to be real.

 But there aren’t any clothes in the closet, and the bathroom’s as empty as the rest of the flat, and Harry’s getting really worried, now. What could have happened? It’s only been three weeks, and now everything’s just—gone. There’s not even a note, and Zayn knew he was coming back, knew he would be here. Zayn hadn’t said anything about moving.

What if he was kidnapped? What if someone had followed Harry and knew and took him for ransom, and cleared out the flat so the police wouldn’t suspect, and now Zayn was tied up in a prison somewhere? And he couldn’t even call Harry because of course he didn’t have his number and that was such a stupid idea, why hadn’t Harry given it to him for times like these, for emergencies, because Zayn’s parents are fine but they aren’t well off and how will Harry know where to make the drop if Zayn can’t contact him?

He has to find him. Harry slams the door shut behind him, because he doesn’t want to ever see that flat like that again, like there’s nothing in it, like the whole little domestic dream he’d been living there didn’t exist, and runs to his car. But Zayn’s bike isn’t in front of the shop, either, and when Harry glances in there’s someone he vaguely recognizes from Zayn’s photos there.

And that’s—he slams his head against the steering wheel, jumps a little when it lets out a loud honk. Where else can he go? He can’t go to Zayn’s family, what’s he supposed to say, I’m you son’s boyfriend where is he has he been kidnapped? And he doesn’t even know where they live, doesn’t have any way to find them except this shop and he doesn’t even know if that person in there will know, and he can’t risk—what if she told someone? What if she tweeted and then everyone would come and he still wouldn’t know where Zayn was!

The pub. He knows where that is, he’s driven past it, and maybe Niall will be there. Niall won’t betray Zayn, not if everything Zayn’s said about him is true, and maybe he’ll know, maybe he can tell Harry what the hell is going on here.

He peels back out of the lot, as fast and reckless as Zayn’s ever driven on his bike, and makes it to the pub in record time, tumbling out of the car almost before he’s put it in park.

 It’s a nice place, homey if a little smokey, with a darts board and a pool table in the back, and a long elegant wooden bar. There’s one man in a corner table, nursing a pint, but other than that the only person in the pub is a blonde guy about Harry’s age behind the bar, idly trying to throw a ping pong ball into a shot glass.

But he looks up when the door opens and Harry walks in, and his smile is just as bright in person as it is in the photos, or as Zayn’s described it. “Hey, mate,” he starts, “How’s—you’re Harry Styles.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, and despite everything he can’t help but hold back a grin at the way his eyes widen.

“Holy buggering fucking bloody shit hell, you’re Harry Styles,” Niall repeats. The ping-pong ball clatters onto the bar as he bolts to his feet. “I fucking love your music, man!”

“Thanks.” It’s nice to hear, even if Harry could really care less right now. But why is Niall reacting like this? Did Zayn not tell him? He understoof keeping it generally a secret, but Louis and Liam and Nick and his mum all knew Harry was seeing someone, why hadn’t Zayn told? “Look, I was just wondering, if maybe you’d seen Zayn around lately? Or knew what happened? And why it looks like no one’s living in his flat?” Harry’s swallowing back tears by the end of it, because it’s been three weeks and he’s worried and a bit scared and he wants Zayn.

“Zayn? Why—you.” Niall’s mouth drops, and his eyes, if possible, go even wider. “The little shit, you’re the bloke he’s been on about?”

“He talks about me?” Then Harry shakes his head, because that is the least important thing here. “So you know where he is? What happened to him? I just got back and he’s not there!”

The shock’s fading from Niall’s face, and what’s settling in its place is a very unnatural looking glare. “Sure, I know,” he says, and his chin juts out. The star struck thing has gone, almost completely, which is probably good for conversations.

“You do? So he’s not dead? Where is he?” It’s as good as that second Harry walks on stage, that confirmation. Zayn’s okay. Or not dead. Nothing’s that wrong.

“I…” Niall’s still glaring at him. But Niall doesn’t get mad. Zayn had said that, said that Niall is the chillest person he knows and is always happy, which is part of why Harry was sure he was going to love him, because he loves anyone who makes Zayn happy. But this isn’t happy, this is mad, this is fierce, and Harry doesn’t get it and Niall is taking forever to answer and is this what everyone feels like talking to him? At last, Niall continues. “I don’t think I’m going to tell you.”

“What?”

Niall crosses his arms across his chest. “I don’t think you have any right to be asking questions.”

“No right?” He’s his fucking boyfriend, that’s a million rights! “But—”

“If Zayn had wanted you to know, he’d ‘a told you,” Niall states. “He’s fine. He doesn’t need you.”

“I know!” he knows, he knows he knows he knows, but that doesn’t mean Harry doesn’t need him, doesn’t mean Harry doesn’t want him, doesn’t mean Zayn doesn’t want him, or he thinks he does at least. Or he did. Harry’s sure of that. “But—”

“He’s gone, so you can leave.” Niall points dramatically to the door. Harry actually turns to look at it. He doesn’t get it. Why is Niall being so mean to him? What did he do? “Actually,” Niall goes on, and Harry spins back, a grin ready on his face because he’s going to tell him and then Harry will go find Zayn and then everything will be okay again. But Niall’s just jerked out a napkin and a pen. “Sign this. Then leave.”

Everything in Harry dies again. But he still reaches out for the pen, scrawls, ‘any friend of Zayn’s is a friend of mine! –Harry Styles’ on the napkin (he omits the smiley face he’d usually put, because he’s mad), then hands it back. “I’m going to find him,” Harry says, firmly. It’s a fact. He has to. He will. He can’t not.

Niall’s face does another twisty sort of thing. “You shouldn’t,” is all he says, though, and sits very conclusively back down.

And what does that mean, Harry thinks as he throws himself back into his car. He doesn’t—there’s nothing more he can do here, probably, he thinks, no one he can ask, Zayn already might be mad about him telling Niall. He has to go back to London. Maybe he can hire a private investigator. And what does Niall mean, he shouldn’t? Is something wrong after all? Did Zayn get into something illegal? Or something bad, something he doesn’t want Harry to know about? Is he on the run from the law, he should have come to Harry then, because Harry has resources and he’s pretty sure he could make Simon give him the name of people who could help, if he batted his eyelashes enough.

It doesn’t stop the whole drive back to London, the chorus of what if and why and where and oh my god and _Zayn_. He doesn’t go home, though, what could he do from home? Instead, he goes to Louis’s. He’s not entirely sure why, he’s not sure he’s thinking clearly anymore, but Louis’s good with plans and evil masterminds and he went to uni in London too so maybe he knows people and Zayn likes Louis’s music, so maybe he tweeted something at Louis that Louis saw, Harry’s not sure why he would but people tweet weird things at him all the time.

“Holy shit, Haz,” Louis opens his door and gapes. “What happened to you?”

“Can I come in?”

Louis steps aside, so Harry can come past him. He kicks his shoes off in the hall, then keeps going into the kitchen, throws himself onto a stool and rests his head on the tile of the island. Louis follows him, or so Harry assumes, by what sounds like someone hopping onto the counter. “Seriously, Haz, what’s wrong? You look like shit.” 

“I—I need help, Lou.” Harry lifts his head from his arms, gives Louis his most tragic look. It’s not hard, he’s not trying to be pitiful or anything, he actually feels like this. Actually needs this. “I went—I was going to see him—and then he wasn’t there! And no one will tell me anything and it’s like he’s disappeared and—”

“Your mysterious boy?” Louis asks. He’s got a weird expression on, his lips pursed, his eyes serious. Why is everyone giving Harry weird expressions today? He doesn’t want weird expressions, he wants Zayn’s Harry-smile. He wants Zayn’s Harry-smile telling him everything’ll be alright, he can slow down, he can cuddle into him and just be Harry, not be this person people are making weird faces at. 

“Yes! And I can’t find him and I need to!”

Louis’s lips press together even harder. “Harry, you aren’t—” he shakes his head in irritation. “This isn’t about drugs or anything, right?”

“What? No! How could you think that? I don’t do that shit.”

Louis shrugs, unrepentant. “Just checking. You’ve been weird lately.”

“Weird?” 

“You’ve had even more energy than usual, you get really antsy sometimes, you disappear for days on end…”

“Because I’m with my boyfriend! You know that.” Harry kicks his feet against the counter, hard. He doesn’t want to argue about this. He wants to find Zayn. 

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t also doing drugs. It’s one of the easiest routes into it, some fit bloke slipping you something.”

“Zayn wouldn’t do that!” Harry leaps to his feet, his arms braced on the edge of the counter. “He’s not like that, and just ‘cause you had your whole thing doesn’t mean I will, I—” he cuts himself off when he actually looks at Louis. Louis’s actually gaping at him, his mouth hanging open, the rest of him still in a way Harry’s never seen before. “What?”

“Zayn?” Louis echoes. His voice is higher than usual. “That the name of your boy? Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

“Zayn. Zayn Malik?”

“Yeah. Louis, what…”

Louis gives a hoarse snort. “With the cheekbones, and the hair, and the eyelashes, and the whole…” he waves a hand at his body. “Pretty thing?”

“Yeah?” Harry’s getting a little scared now, because there’s no way Louis could know that. Unless he found pictures of him, somehow? Or maybe Zayn’s a secret model, actually. Or he’s, like, a secret porn star, that’s why sex with him is so good? 

“Pretentiously arty? Bit of a prick?” Louis’s lips are curving into a smile, his eyes lighting up in a way that always makes Harry wary. He takes a step back, just in case. “Bus 1 tattoo, right here?” he runs a finger down the side of his left hand.

“Yes.” Harry knows that tattoo, has outlined each letter with his tongue, has held it close, over his heart. “Louis, what—”

Louis starts to cackle, a delighted, hysterical sort of laugh, and holds out his arm, sticking it under Harry’s nose. Harry hasn’t really paid attention to Louis’s tattoos in years, because they’re cool but almost as much of a mess as his and they’re just—Louis. But when they’re stuck under his face, he can hardly keep from seeing it. BUS 1, in bold black letters, almost hidden by everything else but definitely there, an exact echo of Zayn’s. 

They could be just a fad, or something. But Louis’s not treating it like that. “You…”

“It was kind of a joke,” Louis says, too fast. He’s bouncing a little in his seat, and the laughter in his face is almost spilling over. “We always took this one bus from our flat to class, and we got in such trouble on it, nearly got kicked off once or twice because the driver knew us and liked us enough to joke about it. But it was—like, I dunno, Zayn had some poetic shit about how it was supposed to be about us always finding our way home.” He runs a hand over the letters, and Harry has a sudden flash of Zayn doing the same thing to his, like they were an anchor. 

“You,” Harry says again, his eyes widening. It’s a statement this time. “You’re his mate, the one who made it big! From uni!” 

Louis’s grin almost splits his face. “And he’s the bloke you’ve been tied up about? Fuck, Haz, should have known he was your type. Only someone that pretty could keep your attention for long.” 

“’s not just that he’s pretty,” Harry mutters. “Then you know where to find him?” 

The smirk dies a little from Louis’s face. He gets kind of the same look as Niall had had, and no, Louis’s supposed to be Harry’s mate, supposed to be on his side. “Harry—do you know why he left?”

“No!” Harry plops back down into the stool. “That’s what I need to ask him! I—I thought everything was good,” he says, almost a whisper. He had. He had been counting down the minutes until he could go back, until he could get back to Zayn, until he could taste his skin again, until he could lose himself in him, until he could curl up on that bed with one of Zayn’s books and sink into the ease there. 

“Oh, Haz,” Louis says again, and ruffles his hair. Harry pouts. He doesn’t want pity, he wants Louis to tell him where Zayn is. “Can I say something? As his best mate?”

“Thought I was your best mate.”

“He’s known me longer, he gets seniority. And—” It’s so weird, seeing Louis’s face look like this, not just serious but a little sad. “And I wasn’t as good a mate to him as I should have been, at the end there.”

“What happened?” It’s not the time for it, but it’s another part of Zayn Harry’s never gotten. 

“Zayn didn’t tell you?” Harry shrugs. Zayn’s never really told him, just said some shit about growing apart and that could be the truth, but now, knowing Louis, and how Louis holds on, Harry doubts it. 

“We just—I was doing the whole rock star shit, and Zayn was finishing up uni, and—” Louis lets out a long breath. “And then he had an existential crisis and went home, because he’s poetic like that and looks too good brooding not to have existential crises, and I was busy being high, and we lost touch.” Louis makes that motion again, a reflexive grip over his forearm. It’s not an unfamiliar move, Harry realizes, though he never really noticed before. He does it a lot, when he’s scared or nervous or out of his depth. 

“He follows all your press,” Harry says quietly. “Like, he always had magazines about you and shit.”

That gets a smile, and a rueful shake of his head. “Fuck him, he said he never paid any attention to me.” 

“Well, he does. More than to mine.” Harry wrinkles his nose, a little, but at least it makes sense now. Harry doesn’t have to really be jealous. It’s not a celebrity crush, or something. And it means he might know where Zayn is now, even if everyone knows you can’t push Louis into doing something he doesn’t want. 

“Right.” Louis tilts his head, meets Harry’s gaze almost fiercely. “Have you hooked up with anyone other than Zayn since you’ve been together?”

“Of course not! I don’t cheat.” He does a lot of things, but he doesn’t cheat in a real relationship, and Louis should know that. 

“You did on Carmen,” Louis points out evenly. 

“Yeah, but that…” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “That wasn’t real. I didn’t care about her, really. Not like this.” 

Louis nods, slowly. Then he leans forward, braces his elbows on his knees. “Are you in love with him?” 

“Of course.” It’s a pointless enough question that Harry sits up straighter, gives Louis his best confused look, because—of course. Of course he loves Zayn. Why else would it feel like he’s falling apart when he can’t find him? Why would coming back to Zayn’s feel more like coming home than his own flat, why would he spend most of his time thinking about the things he can tell Zayn? Zayn, with his wicked laugh and cool smirk and clever hands, who could hold Harry down or be so very, very gentle. Who’s everything he wants, ever, forever. “Can you find him, Lou? I need to find him.” 

“I…” Louis trails off, and this is another thing Harry thinks he’s never seen before, Louis at a loss for words. “Look, Haz. You’re a very black and white person, you know that? And that’s not a bad thing or whatever, but you are. And Zayn—he’s an artist, and all broody and shit. There’s a lot of grey in his life. He overthinks everything.”

Harry kicks at the counter again. He knows all this. “Can you find him, Louis? Please?” He’s not above begging. 

“I just want him to be happy. I want you both to be happy, really, but you’re better at it.” 

“ _Louis_.” 

There’s that smirk again, but Harry doesn’t care, because it’s scary but it also means Louis has a plan, and that’s something, because Louis’s plans usually work. Sort of. Well, they end in mayhem, but that’s what Louis wants, so overall he thinks they work. “Yeah,” Louis drawls, his eyes glinting mischievously over a delighted smile. It’s enough like Zayn’s smile when he’s pleased with himself, with how he worked something out or got Harry to drink something awful or beat him at an argument, that it kind of hurts Harry’s heart, because it’s the same in the way friends’ mannerism tend to be but also not it at all and Harry want’s Zayn’s smile. “Yeah, I can find him. Don’t you worry, just leave it all to Uncle Louis. Go home and get some sleep, you look like shit.” 

He slides off the counter, and Harry gets up too. He feels like shit, to be honest, even if it hasn’t been that long since he woke up. But—Louis will find him. Louis will find Zayn, because they were best mates, and if that’s not a sign Harry doesn’t know what is, that his best mate is Zayn’s old best mate. It’s like they were meant to meet. Like the universe was correcting itself, or putting itself right, when he walked into the garage. 

“Okay. You’ll find him?”

“I can get a hold of him, never you mind.” Louis giggles to himself a little as he herds Harry towards the door like a particularly enthusiastic sheepdog. “Oh, and—are you going to Amy’s thing tonight?”

“I—” Harry shoves his hair out of his face, turns inward so hopefully no paparazzi will notice it’s him, if they happen to be camping outside of Louis’s. He tends not to get it as crazy as Harry, but you never know. “I wasn’t going to? I was going to be with Zayn. But if I’m here, I probably should. You’re going to find him? Soon?” He demands, anxiously. He won’t go if Louis says no. If Louis says no he’s going to hunt Zayn down himself, even if it means recruiting all his fans. He will post a picture of Zayn on twitter and ask for sightings if he has to. But Louis nods, still giggling, and so Harry bites at his lip. “Maybe? What if—”

“Nah, you should go,” Louis states firmly. “Get your mind off things, yeah? It’ll be good for you. I’ll be there too, can update you on my progress. So go home and get some sleep, then show up there looking all fit and pretty and make all the other people jealous they can’t have you, and it’ll all work out.”

“Yeah.” Harry swallows convulsively. Home. Right. That place where Zayn isn’t. 

\---

“Man, that sucks ass.” Harry’s just finished filling Nick in on the last twenty-four hours. It’s a pretty good summary, really. Nick’s always been good with words. “Just, poof?”

Harry nods, and takes a fortifying sip of his mojito. “Yeah, like he moved out when I was gone.”

“Sucky ass way to break up.”

“It’s not a break up.” It’s not. It can’t be. Harry won’t let it be. “Louis knows him, he’ll find him, and then I’ll—”

“Seduce him into not breaking up with you?” Nick finishes for him, dryly. He makes a face at the beer he’d just opened, then heaves a sigh and takes another long-suffering sip. “Isn’t that how you started going out in the first place?”

“Yeah, and it worked!” For a few months, at least. 

“Doesn’t really seem like a long term solution.” Nick turns his gaze out onto the party at large. It’s a cool space, some sort of converted warehouse, very industrial post-grunge in the way a lot of Nick’s artsy friends like. There’s a bunch of graffiti on the walls, though, in a way that’s made Harry go about two drinks faster than usual, even if he can’t really tell if it’s art-graffiti like Banksy or Zayn or just graffiti graffiti that’s still there for atmosphere. “Now, onto important things. See anyone for me?”

“I’m having a tragedy!”

“Just because you’re too mopey and monogamous for sex doesn’t mean I can’t pull.” Nick takes a condescending sip of beer, and turns to survey the crowd. Harry just pouts into his drink. He doesn’t want to watch Nick pull and be happy. He doesn’t even really want to be here. He wants to know Zayn’s safe. He wants to know he can come home to Zayn. Somehow, this is a lot less fun without that. 

“Holy fuck, who’s that?” The vaguely shocked tone in Nick’s voice—more than he usually lets on when he’s on the pull—makes Harry look up. “He’s gorgeous.” 

“Who?”

“There, with Tomlinson—” Harry follows Nick’s gaze, over to where Louis just walked in and is shrugging off his coat, to the person next to him, curved in to mutter something in Louis’ ear—and suddenly he can’t breathe. 

He knows the curve of that neck, the shoulders beneath his leather jacket, the narrow hips in dark jeans. He knows every inch of that back, of the hand that’s curled around Louis’s shoulder. It’s been all he can see for three weeks. All he could think about for the last few months. 

“Nick.” It’s a hoarse rasp, a plea. Harry swallows tries to smooth his voice out, because there are people watching here, always. “Nick, that’s him. That’s Zayn.” 

“No shit.” Nick’s eyes widen, but he peers closer at Zayn. “You were right. He’s too pretty for me.”

“I know.” It’s—he has to get closer. He has to. He’s moving before he realizes he left the wall, is sliding through the crowd like Zayn’s a magnet.

He’s still standing at the door, looking out at the party with the cool, closed expression he uses with strangers, his lips curved into a smirk Harry just wants to lick, wants to kiss until it breaks into a breathless moan. Then—his shoulders tense, and his chin goes up, and that’s when Zayn sees Harry. 

Harry just looks at him. Stares, really, because he looks—he looks different. He’s cut his hair, shaved the sides and styled the top, so his hair’s slicked up into a quiff that makes his face sharper, harder, then the way Harry’s used to, when his hair loose around his face. His scruff is shaved into a careful beard that makes his cheekbones slice like ice and his lips look so very, very pink against the black. He’s wearing a white button down open at the collar so Harry can see a hint of chest, an untied tie around his neck in a way that’s clearly meant to be untied, and a burgundy blazer over it. It’s devastatingly attractive, of course, but—it’s different. It’s not Zayn in soft t-shirts and his sweatpants. It’s not Zayn in jeans and a t-shirt standing over a car, rolling his eyes at something Harry’s said as his arm muscles twist. It’s something sharp and edgy and it hurts a little, but it fits. Zayn fits. He looks like he goes to these parties every day. Like if Harry had asked him to come with him, he might have said yes. 

But he wouldn’t have. Harry’s certain—Harry’s almost certain of it. He liked staying anonymous. He had said that. Hadn’t he? 

Their eyes lock for a long moment. It’s like a movie, one of those eyes meet across a crowded room and you just know—except Zayn doesn’t smile. Not his Harry-smile, or his brilliant grin, or even a ‘oh look you caught me’ smirk. He just looks, with one of those dark-edged, burning gazes. And then he looks away. 

It’s worse than the first time, when he told Harry he was harassing him. It’s worse than when they were in a fight, because at least then Zayn was yelling at him. It’s worse than everything in the world because Zayn just turns away and whispers something to Louis, and he doesn’t look back. 

Harry does. Harry can’t stop looking, because he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get what’s happening. He doesn’t get why Zayn’s ignoring him. 

Because Zayn is ignoring him. He’s going around the room, even if he’s sticking close to Louis, and he’s talking and joking and smiling and he’s enjoying himself, Harry can tell. He’s got his amused smirk on as he talks to Christie, who works in an art gallery; he laughs a little at some joke Finchy makes. He even talks to Nick a little, Harry sees from the bar stool he’s planted himself at, and of course they seem to get along. He knew they would. Just. He didn’t expect it to be so easy. Didn’t expect Zayn to fit here so easily, to seem like he belonged. 

“Hey, Styles.” Jenn O’Hara slides into the seat next to him. He doesn’t know why she’s here—it’s very much not her crowd, these hipsters and artists and intellectuals, but she is, in a tight black sheath dress that leaves nothing to the imagination and bright scarlet lipstick. Harry remembers that lipstick, off hand, how it looked smeared over his skin, like paint. He wonders if Zayn would want that, would want to smear his paints over Harry’s skin and make him into art. 

“Hey.” Zayn’s laughing at something Nick says. Harry finishes off the mojito, and hails down the bartender. He needs something stronger. 

“Aren’t you in a good mood today,” she purrs, and runs her hand over Harry’s arm. “I could make it better.”

Harry’s really not in the mood for this, but he gives her a bit of a smile as he accepts his whiskey from the bartender. “Haven’t you heard? I’m taken.”

“What, those rumors about you and Carmen Clancy?” She hums out a laugh, low and throaty. “I don’t believe them for a second. You’ve never settled down a day in your life.”

“Why not?” He spins in his chair, suddenly, looks away from Zayn to glare at her. She raises her eyebrows. Probably because he’s never snapped like that, in public or out. “I could settle down if I wanted to.”

“Not you, love,” she chuckles again. It’s a sexy chuckle, but it doesn’t—it’s not Zayn’s, it doesn’t run through him like a shiver. “How many of the people in this room have you fucked?” 

Harry looks out, looks over. It’s a lot, to be honest, but that—that doesn’t mean anything. He’s had his fun. There are a lot of hot people in this room. But none of them are as hot as Zayn, and he doesn’t want any of them like he wants Zayn, like he wants to shove him into a wall and use that loose tie to pull him close and ruin him, to get his fingerprints all over that shirt and mess up his hair and bite his mark into his skin so Zayn’s burning with it. He doesn’t want to curl up with any of them either, to sink into their warmth and cuddle them and make them smile all the time. 

“Not him, really?” Jenn must have seen where he was looking, because she looks over too, gives Zayn a sultry once over. “I’d have thought he’d be just your type. Shall we race, then? Or would you be up for…” she trails off, but he gets the look in her eyes. It’s a tempting thought, for some other time, Harry agrees, thinking of Zayn’s skin painted with that red, red color and how Harry could really watch him coming apart. But not now. Not now when Harry doesn’t even know what’s happening, when Harry just wants Zayn a thousand thousand ways and Zayn’s not even looking at him. 

“Not tonight,” he says again. He needs to distract her. “Both of us might be too much for him to handle.”

“I could be nice.” She’s still tracing over the lines on Harry’s arm, her nails a faint prickle against his skin. He could move his arm away, but he kind of wants Zayn to see. Wants Zayn to look at him and see that other people want him, that he could have anyone and why isn’t Zayn making sure everyone—or, at least, Harry—knows he’s Zayn’s? 

“I can’t.” 

She laughs again, louder, and it’s enough that Zayn’s eyes flick up and over, towards them. His face hardens, a little— _good_ —but then he just leans over and mutters something to Louis, who rolls his eyes and jerks his heads towards a door. Probably going out for a smoke, Harry deduces, as Zayn slips away. 

It’s like the magnet thing again, like he can’t stay away. He’s setting down his drink and going before he can stop himself, if he’d even want to, ignoring Jenn’s laugh of “no head starts, Styles!” He just goes. 

The door closes behind him with a rusty squeal of hinges, and then Harry’s in the alley between this building and the next. It’s a pretty nice alley, all things considered. No dumpsters, not a lot of dirt or trash—and Zayn in the center of it, flicking a lighter against a cigarette trailing from his lips. His eyes widen when he sees Harry, and he looks so beautiful there, with the light from the streetlights falling onto him, white and black and tanned skin, and Harry can’t help himself. 

“Zayn,” he breathes, and starts toward him. It’s been too long, and he just wants to absorb him, to breathe in Zayn’s breath and feel his skin and all the other things about Zayn that he’s missed. Zayn, though—Zayn goes stiff as soon as he sees him, his body tense like it was when they were fighting, or when he saw Harry that first time. Like he doesn’t want Harry. 

So Harry stops moving. “Zayn?” he says again, and it’s a question this time. 

“Should have known Lou couldn’t keep a secret,” Zayn mutters. He backs up a few paces to the other wall, like he’s putting a safe distance between them. There’s no desk here, but Harry feels predatory again. “What are _you_ doing, Harry?”

“What am I—what are you doing? Why were you acting like you didn’t know me?” He tries not to make it sound whiney, sound needy, but it is, and he does. He does need Zayn. 

Zayn takes a drag on his cigarette before he answers. When he does, it’s slow, and even, almost thoughtful. Like this is some sort of fucking academic question, not them. “I didn’t know how you wanted to play it. Seemed safest.”

“Play it?” Harry demands. “Play what?” 

Another long drag. Zayn’s staring somewhere above and to the right of him, and it’s too dark to read his face properly. “I wouldn’t have come if I knew you were going to be here, don’t worry. Louis’s just, well, you know. A bit of a wanker sometimes.” 

“Don’t worry?” Harry’s as confused as he is angry, which always seems to be the way when he’s with Zayn, when Zayn gets like this, all closed off and saying things that make no sense. “Why would I worry? I was terrified you were dead, Zayn! You just disappeared!”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Sorry. I probably should have left a note.”

“A note?”

“Are you just going to repeat my last words?” Zayn asks, and Harry can’t quite see his expression but he knows what it is, one side of his lips tilting up into a sardonic smile. 

“Zayn. What are you talking about?”

Zayn sighs, and Harry can, barely, see his face going blank again. “I should have gotten word to you, I know. But—I was trying for a clean break. It seemed like the only way.” 

Harry can actually feel his heart breaking in half. “Are you—” he chokes on the words. “Are you breaking up with me?” 

That gets Zayn’s attention, somehow. He looks at Harry, for what feels like the first time since that long look when he came into the warehouse, and there are shadows in his eyes and on his faces and he looks as sad as Harry feels. “I guess you could say that. I can’t do it, anymore. I’m sorry.”

“It? You mean us?” He’s not going to make it easy for Zayn. He’s not going to make it easy when he’s about to cry. 

“I mean…” Zayn sighs, blows out his breath. “I mean I want to try to do something with my art.”

“Really? Is that why you were talking to Christie?” Despite himself, Harry can feel himself smile. That’s great, it really is, brilliant, because Zayn deserves to be brilliant and famous and to have everyone look at his art and make comments about it. 

Zayn nods. “Yeah, ‘s why Lou took me here. To meet people, make connections.”

The smile dies. “I could have done that! I know people. I know more people than Louis, these are more my friends than his. I could have helped, if you had asked.”

“No.”

“Why not?” He takes a step forward, towards Zayn. He’s not sure if he wants to kiss him or shake him or both at once, if he wants to grab on and never let him go or walk away forever so Zayn knows how much it hurts. “Why the fuck not, Zayn?” Zayn’s drawing himself up, too, his shoulders tensing and his lips pressing together, and his eyes starting to burn. “Why won’t you just let me help you?”

“I’ve finally decided to fucking do something with my life. I don’t need anyone’s help,” Zayn spits back. 

“You let Louis help you!”

“He’s my mate.”

“Then what am I?”

“It’s different, okay? Louis helping me is a mate making some connections. You—I can’t, okay. I won’t. I’ll do this as my own fucking person.”

“What the hell does that even mean, Zayn?” He can hear the hoarseness in his voice that’s halfway between tears and screaming. “Why is me helping you any different?”

“Because I won’t be Harry Styles’s whore!” Zayn yells back, and Harry’s not sure if it’s real or not, but it echoes in the alley, coming back louder and louder each time until Harry’s swaying with the impact of it. 

“What?” it comes out as a whisper, like it can swallow up all the sound of Zayn’s yell. 

Zayn’s seemed to have deflated, like holding that inside of him was all that was keeping him up. He slumps back against the wall, and when he talks, his voice is even and steady again. “I know what we were, okay? But I need to make a break, Harry. I can’t be your…whatever the male version of mistress is anymore. It’s starting to hurt a little too much.” 

“Mistress?” He still can’t get above a whisper. He thinks he might be shaking. He thinks he might be crying. “Is that what you think?”

Zayn tilts his head in confusion. “Yeah?”

“Why—why would you think that?”

He thinks he can see Zayn’s forehead crease. “I get it, okay? I’m the fit mechanic you fuck then you go back to your own life. Or, like, you keep fucking on the side as a sure thing while you have all…” he gestures back to the party behind him. “All this. While you go on dates with Jenn O’Hara and Carmen Clancy and Taylor Swift and Caroline Flack and everyone. And it’s alright. Well, no, it’s actually not. But that’s not exactly your fault.”

“Why would you even think that?” He’s still not sure he doesn’t want to shake Zayn for being so stupid. “I never meant it to be like that, we weren’t, or, I mean, I wasn’t—”

“What’s my phone number, Harry?” Zayn asks, on a bit of a sigh, and bites at his lip when Harry can’t answer. “There. You don’t give me your phone number, you don’t want to go outside, you have all these other people—”

“None of them were real! It’s just media stuff!”

“How am I supposed to know that?”

“You—I told you. I know I did.” Didn’t he? Harry thinks back, but he can’t remember, it’s not even a thing to him at this point. He didn’t even think Zayn noticed, really. He had said he hadn’t followed his press. 

“You didn’t.” Zayn leans back against the wall, slumping again. He looks…exhausted. And it’s weird, because for all he’s chill, for all he’s usually the one pulling Harry into bed for a nap or a cuddle, Harry doesn’t think he’s seen him look like this before, drained. “You really didn’t.”

“You could have asked, then!” Could have asked for anything, and Harry would have given it to him. How can he not know that? 

“Asked?” Harry can’t tell if Zayn’s laughing or trying not to cry, because he’s looking down at his feet and Harry wants to force him to look at him again but he doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know how to touch him, if everything that went before had Zayn thinking—thinking he’s been being used. “Harry, I know how this works. I’ve done it before. Not _this_ ,” he specifies, when Harry draws in a ragged breath, and Harry’s heart starts beating again. “But, like—friends with a celebrity. I get as much as you can give me, and there’s no point asking for more because you aren’t going to give it to me. Because you can’t give it to me. So no, I’m not going to fucking ask.”

Harry’s not a violent person, but he kind of wants to go into that party and punch Louis, because Zayn’s rubbing his fingers over the BUS 1 tattoo and Harry’s heart is breaking in sympathy. 

“Zayn…” he starts, but Zayn’s already going on, like he’s been holding himself in for a long time. 

“And it was fine when you were just a fit bloke I was shagging, and it was okay when you were a lad who I was hanging out with and shagging. But then—” He glances up at Harry, suddenly, through his lashes, and there’s something so sad about that look, sad and fierce all at once, somehow. “I couldn’t have dealt with it if I was in love with you and we were shagging. So I left before you could. I’m not sorry.” There’s a challenging, daring intensity in his gaze, like he wants Harry to make fun of him for it. 

Making fun is the last thing on Harry’s mind. He’d thought he’d known, thought he’d known from the way Zayn looked at him, from how he touched him, from how he bought him sweatpants and had his book sitting on the nightstand and started buying skim milk because that was the kind Harry liked. He hadn’t known he needed Zayn to say it. But it’s filling him up, overwhelming the fear and the anger and the heartbreak. 

“In love?” he echoes hoarsely. “With me?” 

Zayn lets out a short, harsh laugh. “You would focus on that. Yeah, Harry. In love. I should go find the sign up for the ‘people who’ve fallen for Harry Styles’ club. Pretty sure there’s a long list.” 

There are too many emotions in Harry to pick one. “Only if I can find the sign up for the ‘people who’ve fallen for Zayn Malik’ club,” Harry says, softly. He’d thought he’d said it before, but apparently there are a lot of things he thought he’d said that he missed. “Pretty sure there’s as many people in it.” 

Zayn jerks his head away, straightens so he’s almost Harry’s height. “I can’t be your mistress, Harry. I can’t.”

“I never wanted you to be!” He grabs both of Zayn’s shoulders now. Like doing that will keep him anchored, will keep him here with Harry. “I mean, you aren’t. I don’t want you to be.”

Zayn’s face has smoothed out, until even this close Harry can’t read it. He _hates_ this face more than anything, but he thinks he can see something in the corners of Zayn’s eyes, the set of his mouth, something that’s confusion and fear and everything that’s in Harry too. 

“What do you want, Harry?” he asks. 

“You!” And there it is, the basic truth. “I want you. However you want us. I just want you. Which isn’t something I’ve ever thought I’d say, because I want everything, Zayn, I do, and I love all the crazy of my life, all the popstar things that you hate, but—you’re the most important. I will go in there and tell everybody that I love you and you are my boyfriend if you want, or I won’t tell anyone anything, whichever, but I’m not going to go away, Zayn, I’m not going to let you go. I’m going to show up every day at your gallery or your studio or your flat and I’ll wear you down because I did it once and I can do it again, you know I can, and I want you in my flat and to shag everywhere we can and then to watch your stupid action movies on my huge TV and to look at you fixing my cars and to go on long motorcycle rides and blow you afterward and I want to go out and hold your hand and say sappy things about you on TV and never sleep with anyone else and let you leave hickies everywhere and—oof!”

The last sound’s more a grunt than anything, and it’s only because Zayn’s suddenly launched himself at Harry. His lips cut Harry off, and his hands are bruisingly tight on Harry’s hips as he shoves them both backwards until they hit the other wall, until Zayn’s pressing him into it like he wants them to meld into one being starting with their lips. For a second Harry’s almost too stunned to do anything. Then he remembers, and gets his hands into Zayn’s stupid, beautiful, styled hair, and kisses back, just as desperately, just as fiercely, so Zayn can suck all the feelings out of him, all the truths he apparently forgot to say. 

Then Zayn moves away from his mouth, and Harry makes a whining noise of annoyance until he realizes it’s just so he can start kissing down Harry’s jaw to his neck. Once he gets there, he starts to bite, sucking a mark into Harry’s skin and Harry shivers with it, with the thought of everyone seeing it, of everyone seeing it and looking at Zayn and knowing it’s his. 

He’s saying something, Harry realizes, between biting into Harry’s skin and making low moany sounds whenever Harry pulls at his hair or rolls his hips. “Yes,” he’s etching into Harry, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Harry pulls him up by the hair, because it seems like that’s the only way he’s ever going to let go and Harry wants to look at him when he’s saying this, even if it’s in a dirty alley and it’s the least romantic ever. “Yes?” he asks. “Yes to me?” 

Zayn smiles, and it’s—his eyes crinkle into little half-moons, and his tongue is tucked behind his teeth, and his whole face lights up with it, until it’s brighter than the moon and the lights and the everything, and it’s more than Harry had ever dreamed of, getting that smile directed at him, like he’s overflowing with victory, with want, with love. “Yes,” Zayn says. “Yes to everything.”


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is, folks! Thanks so much for sticking around through all of it. Keep talking to me about anything, this fic or otherwise. Hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did!

**Excerpted from _Music/Life Magazine_ : **

**_Harry Styles At Home: A Softer Side of Britain’s Favorite Singer (and Couple!)_ **

**Interview by Belinda Strong, Staff Writer**

Upon preparing for this interview, I had expected to come out with a crush on Harry Styles. His flirtatious charm and good looks have become legendary in the five years since he blazed onto the charts; the crush seems like a rite of passage every interviewer must go through. What I did not expect, however, was to have just as big a crush on Zayn Malik, his boyfriend of six months, who Styles had insisted be part of the interview. I had agreed easily—any interview about the ‘real’ Harry Styles should definitely include those closest to him. And as Malik has been reticent ever since the couple went public, I certainly wasn’t turning down such a once in a lifetime opportunity!

Styles welcomes me into his flat on a Tuesday afternoon, wearing his trademark grin. At home, he has on jeans and a plaid button-down; his hair is pulled back by one of the many scarves fans have seen on stage. It, like many things about this platinum-selling singer, should not be as attractive as it is. I had been wary of Styles—he has a bit of a reputation for being difficult with interviewers asking about his private life—but the man is nothing but graciousness as he offers me a mug of tea and ushers me into the sitting room. When I observe that they have a lovely flat, he dimples. 

“Thanks, but it’s just my flat,” he informs me, then adds, loudly, “Because someone refuses to move in with me!” 

I hear Malik before I see him. He has a northerner’s broad vowels in a smooth, sensual voice. “I’ll move in when I’m ready, Harry,” he says, as we round the corner from the hall into the sitting room. “And no sooner.”

“He’s being difficult,” Styles mutters to me, but Malik must hear, because he gives Styles a fond smile. 

While I expected anyone who can keep the notoriously fickle Styles’s attention for so long to be attractive, and I had glimpsed photos of him in the past, I still wasn’t prepared for Zayn Malik. The burgeoning artist has a brooding, bad boy appeal, with intense hazel eyes, dark hair, knife-sharp cheekbones (kill us now!) and more tattoos than his boyfriend. But despite his slightly intimidating good looks, he’s soft-spoken and polite as he greets me, and gestures me to an armchair. 

The room is sleek and elegant, but there are plenty of homey touches—a mug left on the coffee table that Styles makes a face at, a book open on the couch that Malik moves aside as they sit down. There are plenty of bookshelves in the room as is, filled with books that are clearly well-read.

Styles catches me looking at them, and grins. “They’re Zayn’s,” he tells me, proudly. “He would have been an English teacher if he wasn’t an artist. Went to uni and everything!” Styles, who moves on the edges of the literati crowd, nonetheless never attended university; his pride in his boyfriend’s accomplishments is tangible, even if Malik just shrugs. 

They sit together on the couch across from my chair. It’s a bit out of place in the stylish room, overstuffed and used, but it’s a nice contrast, especially as they instinctively position themselves with Styles’s arm around Malik’s waist, and his head resting on Malik’s shoulders. 

“What’s your favorite book, then?” I ask Malik, who clearly needs a warm-up question. 

Malik shrugs again, but he has a bit of a smile on his face as he glances at Styles. “I’ve got a soft spot for _Anna Karenina_ ,” he replies. 

Styles rolls his eyes. “It’s so sad, Zayn,” he protests, “And that’s not at all fair.” Then he turns to me. “He was reading it when we met,” he explains, though it’s clear that’s not the whole story. 

“When you met?” I press. Though stories abound, the couple has never confirmed how they came to be, though there are rumors it has to do with mutual friend Louis Tomlinson. “And how did that happen?”

“Serendipity.” 

Malik chuckles. “Even know what that means, popstar?” he murmurs. His hand’s moved from Styles’s shoulder to his hair, and is twisting a lock between his fingers. It’s quietly intimate in a way that makes me look away. 

“I’ve seen the movie,” Styles protests. “And it was. If my car hadn’t broken down…” he trails off, giving Malik a pointed look, then continues to me, “He was a mechanic when I met him, fixed my car. Then of course I couldn’t let him get away.” 

“I was just the only person who could resist your charm,” Malik counters, but by the way he’s looking at Styles, I don’t think there’s much resisting going on. 

“It’s true,” Styles admits, “But the rest is history!” 

I wait a beat, hoping for more, but that’s all I get out of them on that subject. So I move on to asking them about their routine, their work, their lives. Styles, while never camera shy, is more open than I’ve come to expect from watching his interviews (which I must guiltily admit I do, religiously), more relaxed. He talks for both of them, Malik only occasionally adding in comments. When he does, he speaks mainly to Styles, even if I posed the question. Though it takes me aback the first few times, it quickly becomes clear that it’s not him purposefully snubbing me. He just hasn’t had much experience being interviewed. 

“And your art has been taking London by storm,” I observe to Malik, who has had showings all over the city within the past few months, helped not a little by his boyfriend’s publicity. Even without it, though, I can see the appeal—his sweeping, Banksy-esque pieces speak to the rebel in all of us, the soul aching to break free. 

“I’ve been doing well,” Malik agrees, “But it’s mainly due to Harry, I think.”

“He’s brilliant,” Styles interjects, firmly. “Best I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re not exactly objective, love,” Malik tells him, but Styles shakes his head stubbornly. It has all the hallmarks of an old argument. 

“Everyone loves him,” he tells me. “See?” he gestures to a few of the pieces on the wall, which I had noticed before—comparatively small, but done in Malik’s signature style. “Malik originals.”

“It’s still weird you have them hanging here,” Malik says, but Styles gives him a pointed glare. 

“Until you move in with me, I get to say what’s on the walls,” he informs him, and gets a wry laugh out of Malik. He’s even more handsome laughing, which I hadn’t thought possible. 

Our conversation moves on, (for a full transcript, see _here_ ), until it’s getting late, and Styles has started to fidget, although he’s not saying it. His lack of attention span is notorious, so I realize my time here is coming to an end. 

I still have one more subject I want to focus on, however. “Has it been difficult, being in a relationship with a celebrity?” I ask. 

I expect Malik to answer, but it’s Styles who says, “Well, the fans have been really great, really supportive over all. Helps that they’re all in love with him, of course—who wouldn’t be?”

“Harry,” Malik hisses, biting on his lower lip, and Styles shushes him absently. 

“And people have been tweeting about how we’re an inspiration,” Styles continues. “It’s lovely, really.”

It’s also not answering my question, and Styles, an old hand at interviews, clearly knows that. But I do want to know, so I press, “How do you deal with the gossip? With always being in the public eye?”

I’m trying to ask circumspectly, but it’s obvious Styles knows what I mean—the press has always linked him with multiple men and women, though never with any proof, and the trend has continued even now that he’s publicly in a relationship. His hand tightens around Malik’s waist, drawing creases in the white t-shirt. 

“I,” he starts harshly. I hadn’t thought much about asking, to be honest; Styles has always laughed off his reputation for flirtation and promiscuity in the past. Now, though, given the way his glance flicks to Malik’s face, and how he leans possessively into him, I seem to have a struck a nerve, and he goes on the defensive. “I haven’t—”

“It is hard,” Malik interrupts him. He puts a hand on Styles’s shoulder, and I can visibly see Styles relax. “Obviously, it would be better if the press would stop speculating. But I trust Harry, and we make a point to always communicate about these things.” Styles mutters something into his neck, and Malik’s lips quirk upwards. Then he looks at me, and I’m tempted to cower at the look in his eyes—not mad so much as disappointed. “So, yes, we have issues with it, because it’s never fun to see your boyfriend accused of having an affair. But we deal with it.” It’s the most he’s talked all interview. He shrugs, and runs a hand over Styles’s hair. “He’s worth it.” 

Styles looks up at that, and if it were a cartoon there would be stars in his eyes. As it is, his dimples are deeper than I’ve seen them in any press photo. “Zayn,” he breathes, low and gravelly, and more than a little awed. I can’t blame him. If Malik looked at me that way, I would be in awe as well. “I—” he cuts himself off by burying his face in the nape of Malik’s neck, and it’s clear the interview is over. 

They get up to see me out, politely wishing me well and hoping they gave me enough for my article. As I walk down the hall out of their flat, I look back. They haven’t closed the door yet. Malik is leaning against the doorframe, his arms wrapped around Styles’s waist; Styles’s head is curved into Malik’s so their temples are touching. They’re clearly talking, whispering something I can’t hear, but it looks more like they’re just intertwined, like Daphne and Apollo. 

So that is how I leave them, twisted together on their doorstep, whispering what I hope are sweet nothings to each other. I wish them all the best—and I hope he really is worth it, for both of them.

**Author's Note:**

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